


The Mountain

by TheMusicalHermit



Series: The Mountain [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aboriginal Roadhog | Mako Rutledge, Asthma, Australian Slang, Backstory, F/M, Female Reader, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Survival, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-01-08 14:18:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 99,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12256080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMusicalHermit/pseuds/TheMusicalHermit
Summary: So this is how it ends.Careening down a mountainside ahead of an avalanche on a makeshift toboggan, with the maniacal laughter of a mad, one-legged Australian in your ear.You’d be cursing if you could stop screaming.





	1. Memory: The Dublin Archives

**Author's Note:**

> **  
> **  
> _Note: If you want to jump directly to the survival plot, go to the first chapter called "Chapter."_  
>   
> 
> This story is rather informed by the fact that I was reading a bunch of Junkrat/Reader stories that have him siding with Overwatch, and I thought to myself 'there's no way his character trajectory would allow him to be with Overwatch over Talon.' This is my response to this percieved out of character-ness. Is it possibly even more out of character? Perhaps.
> 
> This was originally intended to be a gender neutral reader, but then Victoria’s Secret Compartment came into play and so it became a female reader even though I went in with the intent of keeping it open to interpretation on that note. I also play with backstories here. Does this mean that one day my fic will likely be proven wrong with inevitable canon updates? Yes. Yes it does. And I'm okay with that because I’ll take canon destroying my headcanons over not knowing anything real about the Junkers.
> 
> Standard fic writing applies, and as I am old;
> 
> A/N: I do not own Overwatch, and what follows is a fan representation from which I will recieve no financial returns or services.
> 
> ((P.S. I hope I got the strine and various other dialects right - I'm not from where any of the Overwatch characters hail from. _If there are errors, **please tell me.**_ ))

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA In Which You Meet The Junkers

So this is how it ends. 

Careening down a mountainside ahead of an avalanche on a makeshift toboggan, with the maniacal laughter of a mad, one-legged Australian in your ear.

You’d be cursing if you could stop screaming.

How the _fuck_ did it come to this?

\--

Originally, you’d not given rumours that Overwatch was starting back up much thought. After all, it was quite unlikely that they’d ever bother you. You, after all, were a nobody.

Well, that wasn’t true. You were an archivist. Well, archivist-in-training and part time actress with the local theatre troop (to pay for your studies, of course).

In any case, you were pretty sure you were of little interest to them.

You were, despite your age, trusted enough by your PhD supervisor that Trinity allowed you to sit and root around in their archives most days. Eventually you were even trusted with your own key, with which you could open the lower vaults. It’s how you discovered fragments to Shakespeare’s _Love’s Labour Won_. 

It wasn’t exactly clear how or why the papers were in Dublin, let alone how the university had managed to overlook such an important work, but what mattered is that they were there.

And, as it turned out, that a lot of private collectors became _very_ interested in the scraps of paper after your interview to announce their discovery hit the air.

In hindsight, you should’ve known something was up when the buying requests stopped coming in. Happened round about the time that a pair of infamous Australian criminals were seen on approach to Dublin. 

They were terribly obvious - holding up pubs along the way for free drinks, directions, and a captive audience to their complaints. 

“What the _hell_ kind of _shit house_ country issit that ain’t got no bleeding sun?!” was a common one, it seemed.

As if the Good Lord wanted to spite those words, it was one of those rare days of sun when the duo made their way to Dublin.

You were in the exterior rooms of archives and blissfully unaware of everything outside of your silent sanctuary. Perfectly content to be reading over paper accession books and comparing them with the databases.

To say that you had little warning would be an understatement.

With a loud _bang_ , the doors of the archive caved in and the smoke alarms went off as the acrid scent of sulphur filled the air. A quick gun blast shut off the alarm and left your ears ringing.

“Ya know Roadhog, I’m pretty sure that last door wasn’t locked after all. Lookie here - no card readers or nothing,” came a strongly accented male voice. “Ah well, least the copper's down.”

And then an absolutely filthy man whose hair seemed to be on _fire_ hobbled into the room on a mechanical peg leg and labouring under some strange tire contraption strapped to his back. The man’s lankiness was quickly dwarfed by the living mountain of a man who followed him. All you could do was gape at them and the badly burnt body of Niall the security guard that lay beyond the smouldering chasm of a former door.

“I swear, this job better work out better than the last, or I’m gonna,” the lanky man’s voice cut off abruptly when he locked eyes with you. A flash of recognition went through him as he said “Well, hello! I can honestly say I didn’t expect to find any birds down here.”

The black goggles of his companion’s mask turned silently to you as you squawked out an awkward string of syllables in reply. The first man chuckled, while the masked man groaned.

“Hey now, love, she’ll be right,” the lanky man said, waving a metallic hand at you dismissively as he randomly pulled open filing cabinets. “Ya see, Roadhog and I’re just here pick up some fancy doovalacky that's got a bunch of suits’ grundies in a twist. Once we get it we’ll just shoot on through.”

“Right...” you slowly say in reply, one finger still poised in an acquisitions book and aware of the cold sweat running down your back. “So you’re telling me that y’all are thieves.”

The lanky man actually giggled as his rotund friend, Roadhog, continued to stare you down. “Full quid, you are,” he muttered as he continued to rifle through the files. Abandoning one cabinet for another, he spoke louder. 

“I’ll have you know that ‘Hog and I aren’t just any regular ol’ thieves, but thieves for _hire_ ,” he continued proudly. “That’s right! We’re fucking _real_ mercs now! Ha _ha_ , and they said I’d never amount to anything.”

He continued on for a while about the job, looking over intermittently to make sure you were paying attention, and you were able to quickly piece together that some absolute _moron_ had seen fit to hire a man who looked like a walking explosives depot (who was literally on _fire_ ) and his oversized shadow to steal a few scraps of _paper_.

First thing you were doing after this, assuming they didn’t get away with the theft, was writing a strongly worded letter to all those who requested to buy _Love’s Labour Won_ and tell them to avoid hiring psychopaths armed with _fire_ to steal from a _library_ when ticked off that said library didn’t just sell its priceless holdings.

Roadhog, at last certain that you were too frightened to move, turned to look at the other man and grunted out a few unintelligible words.

“What do you mean there’s another door? I thought I already blasted ‘em all,” he all but hissed as he looked around wildly (even up at the ceiling).

Taking the initiative while both men had their eyes turned away from your desk, you reached over to the vault door next to your desk, locked it, and shoved the key into your bra. You weren’t too worried about the archival vault - it was a repurposed fallout vault purchased from the United States in the late 2020s. None of this crazy Australian’s bombs would make a dent. 

You hoped.

Roadhog grunted again, and the lanky man scoffed.

“Shut yer damn mug, I wasn’t cracking onto the conchy bird,” he said, eyes flicking to you as he scratched the back of his head. Roadhog huffed at that, though the other man ignored him. 

Straightening his shoulders, he hobbled over to examine the door. He jiggled the handle with increasingly forceful movements, as if it were merely stuck, and loudly declared it locked. He perched on the edge of your desk with his back to you as he examined the door, humming occasionally as he pondered.

Unsure what to do, you folded your hands on the desk before you and tried to keep from panicking as Roadhog stomped to stand at the other end of your desk. You glanced up at him and quickly looked away when his impassive mask turned to you once more.

Suddenly the lanky man was sprawled out on your desk, head propped in his hand and drumming his fingers as he looked at you with a small smirk. You pulled your hands sharply away from his bare chest with a gasp, earning a wider smirk and a wink.

“By the by, love, name’s Junkrat. Come here often?”

His self-amused snicker cut off into a yelp when Roadhog sharply cuffed him over the head. “Idiot,” the larger man growled. “Focus.”

With a snarl, Junkrat flipped onto his stomach, still on your desk, and pointed a finger up at his partner. “Fuck you, ya fat bastard. I'm just having a quick convo.”

In the next instant he was kneeling on your desk before you, brushing noses with you as he leant down to eye level. You backed away with a nervous laugh, rubbing at your nose to remove the transferred soot. With some chagrin, you remembered the self defence spray you’d smuggled into the country in your bag, which was on a coat hook on the far wall.

Junkrat smirked, darkened eyes flicking over your face. He giggled. “Relax, sweets. Just wanted to tell ya that I’m gonna be blowing the vault soon, and we can’t let you go running off to call more coppers down here ‘till the job’s done.” With an edge to his voice, he added, “Don’t worry - I’ll make sure you stay safe.”

“Safe,” you echoed, feeling angry tension thrumming in your body. How on earth was being anywhere near him ever going to be _safe_? In an irate growl, you then said: “That vault was designed as a fallout shelter. You couldn’t blast through it if you tried.”

Junkrat scowled. “Don’t tell me what I can’t do.” He jumped off your desk and dragged you from your chair, shoving you towards Roadhog. “Just makes me want to prove people wrong, that.”

Roadhog gave what sounded like a long suffering sigh when you careened into his stomach. You tried to run around him towards the door, towards your bag, towards _anything_ , only for him to catch you deftly by the wrist. Swinging you around, he caught the other in an equally crushing grip and stood you facing the vault door, his gut brushing your back with each breath he took.

“The one time he remembers there's someone else there,” Roadhog muttered angrily. He was close enough that you felt his words more than heard them. “Figures it's the girl, the galah.”

Junkrat was humming happily as he attached bombs to the wall, and bounded over with an ecstatic grin to pull you out of Roadhog’s grip. The masked man huffed before following you to stand by the previous door that had been blown to smithereens.

Spinning your back against his chest, Junkrat wrapped his arms around you to pin you in place. The vault key dug uncomfortably into your breast as his metallic arm pressed into it. His other arm was wrapped around your waist, and his elbow dug into your hipbone as he manoeuvred the detonator into his line of sight. His own hips were pressed sharply into your lower back, something that you tried to ignore as you squirmed uncomfortably.

You craned your head away when Junkrat’s face brushed against your neck, grimacing when he breathed into your ear. “Ready to see something real beaut?”

If possible, he pulled you even closer as he pressed the detonator. And the entire wall in front of you exploded.

As the ringing in your ears softened, things slowly came into focus around you. 

Junkrat humming contentedly into the crook of your neck. 

Him crushing your body to his with arms like iron bands.

The pain of the key digging into your breasts. 

The detonator at your feet. 

The digits of his hand playing with the hem of your shirt.

The occasional brushes of calloused pads against the skin there.

The way he purred and held you closer when you tried to retreat from his exploring fingers.

Shivering from adrenaline, you finally realised why things seemed so unreal - the entire far side of the room was a mass of rubble. Several files were aflame, your computer looked more like a pile of scrap, and your now one-legged desk was on the verge of tipping over. However, as the smoke cleared it became obvious that the vault door remained pristine.

Roadhog snorted. “Looks like your bird was right. Vault’s not cracked.”

Junkrat, still focused on you, had parted his lips over the flesh just below your ear. You had a flash image of elbowing him in the gut and making a run for it. The presence of the hulking beast next to you destroyed that idea before it was even fully formed. 

The very next moment, both of Junkrat’s hands were firmly gripping your upper arms as he glared up at the vault with a flat “Wait a minute, what.”

As if to mark the moment, the remains of your desk finally fell over.

“Maybe you shouldn’t get so distracted,” said Roadhog after a few moments.

“Har har,” Junkrat replied. “Maybe you should pull that stick outta your clacker.” Once more, he shoved you towards the tattooed behemoth, who dutifully, if disinterestedly, caught you.

A series of explosions came from across the room as Junkrat repeatedly set off charges, trying in vain to blast open the door.

“A key, perhaps,” Roadhog called out.

Junkrat whinged, looking over at the two of you with a sad expression. “But that’s so _boring_ …”

Roadhog shrugged.

“ _Fine_ ,” Junkrat sighed. Looking oddly like a scolded child with his hands shoved in his pockets, he stomped over angrily. Standing before you, he drew himself to his full height and stared you down. “Don’t suppose you have any idea where the key to the fucking door is?”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you forced yourself to avoid glancing at your chest. Your gaze landed instead on your bag. Suddenly, an idea struck you.

Forcing yourself to relax, you smiled prettily at Junkrat. “I’ll do y’all one better and give you the key nicely an’ leave without telling anyone y’all were here.” 

Junkrat blinked at you, eyes flicking down to your smile repeatedly before breaking into pleased laughter. “Aw man, ace! Did ya hear that, Roadhog? The bird’s willin’ to help!”

Roadhog merely stared the explosions expert and shook his head.

Junkrat groaned, dragging his left hand over his face. Cupping it over his mouth, he tapped his fingers on his cheek as he stared up at Roadhog’s masked face.

“If ya’d feel better by keeping her a gun point ‘till we’re done, have at it,” he said at last.

Your eyes widened in slight panic as Roadhog’s hand slid from your shoulder to his holster. That was _not_ good for your plan.

“Look, fellas, I’m not a threat to you,” you said, turning slightly to look up at Roadhog. “Honest. I mean, look at me. I’m a librarian, for Heaven’s sake. What on earth could I do to either of y’all?”

Roadhog considered this for a moment, fingering his gun, before sliding his hands from you completly. He crossed his arms in front of him and nodded.

Breathing out slowly, you stepped away from him and turned towards the other psychopath you were trapped with. Junkrat was looking at you with dark, wide eyes and knawing on the tip of his thumb. He grinned at you, drumming the fingers of his other hand on his elbow.

“You’re fair dinkum, mate,” Junkrat whispered as his eyes slowly trailed over you.

It was at this point that you wished, for what was at least the seventh time, that the garda would hurry their asses up already.

You smiled at Junkrat again, somewhat amazed that he was falling for this. You added a small blush, looking through your lashes at him, and he visibly relaxed. 

What an idiot.

“All I need is my bag - it’s just over there,” you said softly, turning slightly towards where your bag hung on the hook. “Can I -“ After a moment’s debate, you bit your lip and glanced shyly at him, tilting your head in the bag’s direction.

Junkrat grinned goofily at you. “Sure thing, love.”

You put just a _little_ swing into your hips as you walked over, and were strangely pleased to hear an appreciative noise from Junkrat before Roadhog slapped him over the head again.

“Stop perving and focus, drungo.”

“Shut up. I wasn’t perving.”

You made a show of rummaging through your bag as you walked back, saying “Right, so the file y’all’re after is down in section O, shelf mark 2.16. I can’t remember which box, so best I can do is hope you guys don’t make too much of a mess back there.”

Roadhog looked disinterested, but Junkrat was watching you with a small smile. You smiled at him sweetly, feeling around for the self defense spray. This would disorient them long enough to make a break for it. You hoped.

“Kinda glad y’all came, really,” you continued as you got nearer. “After all, I’m sure to have an interesting story to tell my family when this is all over.”

“Couldn’t agree more, sweetheart,” Junkrat began, leaning towards you when you stopped a yard away. “Ya know, for being such a gem about all this, we’ll make sure to pay ya a friendly little visit next tim-“

He didn’t get to finish his promise as you hooked your foot around his peg leg, pulling it from beneath him as you sprayed wildly in Roadhog’s direction. Luck was on your side, because the foaming, red liquid coated not only his mask’s eyeholes, but also one of his air filters. 

Roadhog staggered back into the wall, gasping, before swinging a fist blindly in your direction. You ducked the swing and threw your purse at his face as you turned to run. Two successive thuds, one soft and one loud, told you that you had managed to down him for the moment. You very much hoped your luck would hold.

You had taken maybe three steps when a hand wrapped around your ankle. You screamed as you fell, and sprayed some of red foam on your throat as you were flipped to your back by a furious Junkrat.

“Gotcha, ya fucking bitch,” he shouted, dragging you towards him. “I’m gonna make ya wish ya hadn’t done th-“ He paused to catch your other foot when you kicked out at his face and laughed, pulling your feet to either side of his hips. “Fuck me, is that the best ya can do?”

You bared your teeth with a wordless yell and sprayed him in the face. He reared back with a screech, wiping at his eyes, and you were free.

Scrambling as quickly as you could, you made for the door. Behind you, Junkrat was screaming.

“God fucking damnit! Roadhog, take off the goddamn mask and _get her_ already!”

Roadhog was already standing again, hand on the wall and gun drawn. If he’d heard Junkrat, he ignored him.

You knocked some bits of rubble together, and the next thing you knew the wall behind you was splattered with bits of scrap as a gun discharged. You didn’t pause to look back, but crouched down and continued towards the opening before you. Your heart was pounding in your ears.

You had to make it. You were so close.

Your eyes fell on Niall the security guard. At the same time, a hand closed around your ankle again, but was easily kicked away. The gun went off again, causing Junkrat to swear at Roadhog, and you made a desperate leap towards the burnt body beyond the door.

The gun was melted to his belt, but the taser came free easily.

The taser felt good to hold, as if the weight in your hands gave you strength. Turning the voltage up, you whirled to see a still masked Roadhog filling his gun with rubble and facing you. Junkrat was spitting out blood from a cut lip where your heel met his face, cursing up a storm and wiping at his eyes still. It did not take a genius to figure out your target.

Roadhog writhed when the taser made contact, and you held it for a few seconds. When you released the trigger, he groaned and fell over sideways.

One down.

Looking at Junkrat, you turned down the voltage. Surely such a lanky man wouldn’t need that much of a shock.

He spewed a foul stream of curses as you shocked him twice. “All we wanted was a few goddamned scraps of fucking paper,” he yelled.

“They belong in a museum,” you yelled back.

“Who the fuck do ya think you are? Indiana Jane?!”

“You’re goddamn right!”

He screamed in pain and rage as you shocked him once more before dropping the taser and running like hell.

The garda were waiting around the corner of the hall with guns drawn, and quickly shepherded you to safety behind their lines. The squad commander ordered a team down the hall, now free to act as the hostage situation cleared.

Suddenly explosions rocked the building, and, after a few of them, a wall several yards down the hall collapsed. The fire alarms were ringing non-stop, and with a loud series of splurting sounds the sprinkler system finally activated. As smoke and steam filled the hall, several officers drew their guns towards this new threat.

“Hey, coppers, stop me if you’ve heard this one before,” Junkrat hollered from within the clouds as he threw something towards you all. 

It landed behind the first line, and you could just make out a flat circular shape when the officer next to you pulled you behind her and yelled “Bomb!”

A bright flash of light and a loud bang disoriented you as a blast shoved everyone away from the epicentre. Several officers were thrown harshly against the walls and ceiling. They laid where they fell like marionettes with cut strings.

You and the officer who had protected you were thrown further up the hall. You landed awkwardly beneath her, skidding over the wet tiled floor, and she moaned in pain before slumping over unconscious. Your entire body thrummed in agony from the shock of the blast. It felt like you had fallen down a flight of stairs. But you knew that the officer had taken the brunt of the blast for you, and thanked and apologised to her softly as you shoved her off of you to continue running.

Your mind registered the grenades before you before they even landed, and you threw yourself back just in time to miss the explosion radius. Cowering against the wall with your hands clapped over your ears, you watched as the hallway to freedom gave a loud groan and collapsed. The water from the sprinkler system started welling up over the rubble, gradually lessening the torrent behind you.

Your ears were still ringing when you noticed Junkrat’s distinctive footsteps closing in on you. Looking up, you saw his hateful stare as he holstered a grenade launcher. His hair was flattened and dripping with water, and there were streaks of pale skin visible through the soot. The spray looked like war paint now - a line of red across his eyes that only heightened the power of his glare.

He was muttering to himself when he reached you, but all you heard was the tail end of “all a goddamned act.” Grabbing you roughly by the elbow, he dragged you up. With his metallic hand he pinned you to the wall by your neck, and stepped in so close your chests were almost brushing.

“I suppose ya consider yourself cunning as a dunny rat with that stunt ya pulled. Ya enjoy having a lend of us?” His voice was low and dangerous. “I’ll tell ya this; I’m not planning on leaving here without finishing the job. I know you’re the one who found the fucking scraps. Goddamn picture all over the news - I ain’t blind. So I _know_ that if anyone were to know how to get into the stupid goddamn _cunting_ vault, it’d be you, love.”

You writhed under the bite of his hand, struggling to breathe as your hands wrapped around the unforgiving metal. Junkrat watched you with hooded, darkened eyes. His gaze fell to your lips. He moved closer, pressing you further into the wall as he inclined his head slightly, his other hand sliding up your front to the back of your head. Suddenly he paused, lips scant millimetres from your own.

He began to giggle. “Oh, aren’t _you_ a bag full o’ tricks,” he whispered as he moved his left hand back to your shirt collar. “Ya mean to tell me it was there the whole time?”

Brushing his open lips against yours with a groan, his flesh and blood hand moved to the bottom of your shirt and shoved its way up to your bra. “Classy,” he snickered against your mouth before looking down to your chest. He took his time extracting the key, humming softly. 

“Oh, if this day isn’t enough for me to wish for feeling in me right arm,” he drawled. He tore his eyes away from your chest to wink at you. “‘Course, then we’d not be in this position, now would we?”

You groaned in embarrassment, and his eyes fluttered at the sound as he pressed even further into you with another groan of his own. With an cross huff, he pulled the key out of your shirt and dropped it on the ground. His now free hand shot up to the back of your head and he pulled your mouth to his.

One of your hands shot from his hand to his shoulder, pushing at him as his lips moved over your own. He hummed and slid his hand from the back of your head to your wrist and pinned it over your head. He nipped you sharply, trying to coax open your mouth. You refused to unclench your jaw until a sudden squeeze around your neck had you reflexively gasping.

His hums grew louder and deeper as he clacked his teeth against yours, hand on your wrist darting to tug at your waist and back again. He didn’t dare flick his tongue into your mouth though, which you begrudgingly admitted was smart. You wanted nothing more than to bite him. Even if he was a surprisingly good kisser.

A garda officer groaned from somewhere in the pile of bodies, and Junkrat pulled away with obvious reluctance to bury his face in the crook of your neck.

“God _damn_ do I wanna keep ya,” he whispered, leaving a small kiss on your shoulder. “But the way things stand, love, pretty sure Roadhog would just kill ya before anything fun could happen.”

“Not sure our definition of fun matches up quite well,” you hissed, trying to knee him.

He frowned and moved away from you. “Suppose you’re right. For one, ya don’t seem very taken with my bombs.” Leaning down, he picked up the key and giggled. “Though ya do model them well.”

“What,” you shrieked, and looked up to see that he had placed a small charge around your wrist to keep it against the wall.

“I wouldn’t move ‘round too much is I was ya,” Junkrat continued as he twirled the key in his fingers. “That’s gonna blow if ya twitch too often. Be a shame to see a pretty little bird like you end up a one-armed freak like me.”

You spat at him, which he easily avoided. “I swear, when I get out of here-“

“You’ll what? Tase me again?” He chuckled. “Tell ya what, I’ll let you out of there when the job’s done in exchange for another kiss.”

“The fuck kind of sick bargain is that.”

“The kind what gives both of us a little something we want. Unless, ‘course, you’re not fond of yer hand.”

You glared at him.

“One rule, mind,” he called over his shoulder as he hobbled back towards the archives. “Have to make me think ya want it. Suppose you can just put on another act.”

“Like hell I will,” you shouted as he turned the corner.

You screamed in outrage, pounding the wall in frustration with your free hand. No one moved.

Minutes ticked by. As the adrenaline faded from your body, you realised just how painful the day had been so far. Skinned knees and hands, cuts along your legs and arms, various bruises… and atop it all a massive headache from the repetitive blasts.

At least nothing was broken, you mused as you watched the downed garda unit to see if anyone was waking up. Well, nothing except perhaps your career, pride, hopes, and dreams.

Basing things off his previous actions towards you, you were fairly certain that Junkrat would kiss you regardless of what happened to your wrist. And regardless of how well you pretended to be willing. You were racking your brain for clues as to what he found attractive about you (you were only twenty-five; how old even was he? Was it even possible for the situation to be creepier?) when Roadhog came charging around the corner, gun drawn and one eyehole clear of the red spray.

Junkrat was running after him, holding a long cylinder and shouting “Don’t ya dare shoot her, ya cunt!”

Roadhog stood in the middle of the pile of officers, gun pointed directly at you, and said something. He was too far away for you to make out clearly, but Junkrat stood in front of the barrel, shaking his head.

“She was just doing her job, mate.” Roadhog grunted. “I know _they_ were too, but I wanna make an exception.” Another grunt. “So what if I _am_ looking for a root? Strewth, is that so bad?” Silence and a cocked head. “Look, we don’t have time for this. Let me just get a quick pash and we can go get paid, yeah? Shoot the coppers if yer wanting to kill something so bad.”

Roadhog clenched his fist, shaking a finger at Junkrat as if he was going to say something, and turned to shoot an officer who shifted. Turning his mask towards you, he spoke again.

“Yeah, yeah, five minutes, what are ya, me _mum_?” Walking over to you with a cross look, Junkrat set to work on the bomb first. “Right, ya heard him. Ya got five minutes to demonstrate just how thankful ya are that I didn’t leave ya with one of me toys on yer arm.”

Your arm was full of pins and needles as you allowed it to slide down the wall to your side. You glared at the blonde man before you. “What if I don’t? You already let my arm down.”

“Then there’s no reason for me to keep Roadhog from ya.”

A gunshot rang out, along with what sounded like dark laughter.

Your eyes widened and you froze. Junkrat smiled coldly at you.

“Tick tock.”

Your hand was shaking as you reached out to him, brushing damp locks from his forehead. You allowed your fingers to trail down his cheek to his jaw as you brushed your other hand over his upper arm and shoulder. Bumping over the straps holding the strange wheel to his back, you traced his collarbone and stepped in close.

Not needing much help to pretend this time, you shyly looked up at him to see that he had slightly furrowed his brows as he watched you. Taking a breath, you ran your hands down his arms to place his hands on your hips. His fingers twitched, but he didn’t move his hands as you stepped up to wrap your arms around his neck and shoulders.

One of your hands played with the hair on the back of his head, tangling itself into the wet locks. You breathed out onto his lips, and a quick glance confirmed that his attention was on your mouth. You had the fleeting idea of trying to get away again, but squashed it before it ruined your resolve.

Your entire front was pressed into his, and you could feel his steady heartbeat in his chest. A sudden gun blast from Roadhog caused you to jump and falter. Junkrat’s fingers tightened on your hips before sliding across your back to support you.

The action pulled you closer to him, and you gasped. Junkrat’s lips parted in a sharp exhale. You caught the lower one between your teeth.

He whined softly at that, and (despite your fear and loathing) a bolt of desire shot through you. Holding onto the sensation tightly, you funnelled it into the kiss, finally sealing your mouth to his. You were rewarded with a groan that caused another wave of desire.

Cautiously, you flicked your tongue into his mouth. He breathed in sharply and one hand shot up to the back of your head to hold you there as he returned the action. You quickly lost yourself and let out a light but genuine sigh.

Dear Lord in Heaven, was he good at this.

You almost whined yourself when he suddenly broke away, holding you by your shoulders.

His expression, you would later decide, was incredibly conflicted. He looked over at Roadhog, and frowned.

Looking back to you, Junkrat opened his mouth as if to say something, and closed it again. He did it again, a half-syllable escaping this time. At last, he spoke.

“Hooly dooley, yer a good actress. Almost forgot meself there.” He was smiling and jovial, but his tone was off. “Now, it ain’t been five minutes yet, hell it ain’t even been two, but I’m willing to ignore that. Seems I don’t actually much like being a standover man. Aren’t you a lucky bird.”

Reaching out, he brushed a lock of hair from your face with a far away look. For a moment it looked like he had something else to say. Then he was sauntering over towards Roadhog, who was lining up another shot.

The shot rang out as Junkrat neared, and then Roadhog was looking at you again. He jerked his chin towards you as he rumbled at Junkrat.

“Yeah, got what I wanted. Now let’s blow this popsicle stand, or whatever it is ya old folks say.”

Roadhog stared at Junkrat for a moment before nodding. Without sparing a second glance for you, the duo disappeared up the corridor and, with a final blast, into Dublin itself.

The fallout from this was not anything that you had ever wanted.

First off, due to the complete destruction of your research and the archives (apparently one of them had set fire to the collection), not to mention the costs of building repairs, your PhD program was effectively cancelled. With this came the crushing and sorrowful realization that so many priceless manuscripts and historical information had been lost; a cry that echoed throughout academia. Very swiftly, almost overnight really, the academic community had unjustly laid the blame at your feet. Your ex-supervisor was at least somewhat understanding, though, and offered to help you pack up when the time came.

Secondly, apparently the security cameras had been damaged enough that what little footage they had recorded made it look as if you were an accomplice. It wasn’t until they recovered Niall’s camera and audio that you were able to prove that you were, in fact, an _unwilling_ victim of the events as well. Unfortunately, in the midst of this it was turned up that you had a defence spray in your bag, which was apparently still enough of a crime despite the circumstances that your visa was revoked.

Thirdly, one of the men had stolen your wallet. In conjunction with all the rest of your newfound woes, this was a mild sting, but a sting nonetheless. Calling the banks to cancel your cards showed that a lot of your savings had already been withdrawn via ATMs, to your chagrin.

So there you were in Dublin airport, waiting to find out which gate the plane your ex-supervisor had booked you departed from, when a spiky haired brunette with a blue and white device on her chest suddenly seated herself next to you.

“Hello there,” she said cheerily. “I hear you’re the one that managed to fend off those two Australian blighters, for a little while at least. Sorry ‘bout what happened, by the way.” She shot you a sympathetic look before continuing.

“You see, some mates and I’ve got a little project of sorts that someone as quick on your toes as you may be interested in. We’d be able ta get you back in a doctoral program, for sure, and I can guarantee that you’d be well paid.”

“Sorry, not too interested in working for folks I don’t know all too well,” you replied, narrowing your eyes at her. “Especially if their opening includes reminding me of the bastards who ruined my life.”

The woman bit her lip, choosing her words carefully. “We could help you develop skills and techniques that -“

The gate number of your plane flashed onto the screen, and you stood to gather up your bags. “How about thanks, but no thanks?”

You had gotten at best five feet away when she called out “What if I can guarantee that you’ll be able to get… revenge… on Junkrat and Roadhog?”

You paused.

Turning, you locked eyes with her. “Where do I sign up?”


	2. Memory: Watchpoint Atacama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA In Which You Annoy The Junkers From Afar and Accidentally Lead Talon To Overwatch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Renfros is a popular brand of salsa in the American South West from what my research told me. I put this reference there as a taunt.

“Oi, bird, where ya going? Just want ta talk ta ya, is all,” Junkrat shouted after you as you ran down the hall.

You sprinted around the corner only to come suddenly face to face with Roadhog. He almost completely filled the hall, his head looking just a few inches from touching the ceiling. You tried to stop and turn, but momentum instead bounced you into his stomach. The force knocked you down onto your back in the intersection with a painful thud. 

Junkrat giggled as he hobbled towards you with a rickety grin, grenade launcher laid lazily across his shoulders and standing tall without the weight of the tire on his back. Roadhog advanced with his hook raised over his head, and suddenly Lena was in front of you and shooting at the Junkers.

“Ay c’mon, get up, you,” she called as she flashed around Roadhog, shooting all the while. “We need to get to Winston! He’s up against Reaper alone! I’ll try to deal with this one, you take the other.”

She continued to draw off Roadhog, flashing brightly down the corridor and leaving you to scramble to your feet.

“Fucking pommie,” Junkrat hissed as he resumed hobbling towards you. “Looks like it’s just you and me now, love, and we’ve got lots ta talk about.”

You turned, drawing your exhausted taser. “Fuck off,” you said, backing away down the hall. “We don’t have anything to talk about.” 

If you could make it to the kitchen, maybe you could get the battery…

Junkrat paused, looking at the taser, and laughed darkly. “That’s where you’re wrong. Gots lots ta talk about. Ya calling the coppas on us that one time, for instance. Well, more than that one time, but I s’pose we’ll just have lots ta discuss regarding ya and them coppas. Gots lots of other important stuff ta discuss too.”

You moved down the hall with him shadowing you just out of range of the taser. “What else would we possibly have to discuss?”

“D’ya really think me tattoo’s cool?” Turning slightly and waggling his eyebrows, he flexed his arm to put said tattoo on display. “Wanna see the rest?”

Your confused stare must have been hilarious by the way he bit his lip and attempted to stifle loud laughter. Then you remembered.

The phone call.

Oh shit.

You saw the kitchen door out of the corner of your eye and turned to dive inside. As the door swung shut behind you, you heard Junkrat screech.

“Oi, love, hang on - we’ve not finished our talk yet!”

____________

 

You’d been with Overwatch for several months before you finally met with Junkrat and Roadhog again.

Most of your days at Watchpoint: Atacama were mining Athena’s databases for lost communications and research. It was much closer to cutting edge technology than you were used to, but at least the process was familiar. The only problem was when the research demanded double checking in public records - you couldn’t let people know about Overwatch without risking arrest for aiding and abetting.

Yes. You were the archivist of a listed terrorist organisation. What a strange turnabout. From false accusations of aiding one band wanted men to actively helping another.

The work they were doing was actually _good_ though. Like stopping actual terrorists via covert ops good. And that meant you were, by proxy, a hero too. The combat lessons you were taking with Lena and Winston were pretty helpful in supporting that idea.

You still didn’t agree with the death sometimes dealt though, which was why you were glad to be more behind the scenes. Another reason you preferred it was because you could more easily track your archenemies, the Junkers, with the security camera systems Athena was able to access.

Lena, for all her less than thrilled promises of revenge, didn't agree with your fixation. Said it was unhealthy. Winston understood, and merely cautioned you to not waste too much energy on your nemeses.

Whether the two Australians actively considered you an archenemy didn’t bother you. What was much more important to you as much as how much you enjoyed making sure that every single heist they attempted was foiled by a well timed phone call to a local police force, and how exciting it was to watch it all play out if and when the cops showed up.

It didn’t take long for one of them to put two and two together, because Roadhog soon started shooting every security camera he could see. The fleeting images still allowed you to track them, however, until one day they disappeared completely.

According to your maps, they had last been seen that spring train hopping in Poland, heading towards Russia. All tracks that they could have taken showed no sign of their passing. Increasingly confused, you clicked through the security cameras you’d marked off as a perimeter.

You didn’t see it until you put thumbnails of all the cameras on the screen and ran through footage from the last week. Three days in, one of the feeds gave a blip of light and cut off - the sign of a camera being shot out. It was from a small refuelling depot in rural Belarus. You clicked the recording to bring it to the main screen, rewound it a few minutes and pressed play.

The slightly staticky feed showed the black and white image of a stylishly dressed woman with a half-shaved head waving at the camera. She grinned wolfishly before pointing to what looked like Junkrat’s spiky tire lying next to her. Blowing a kiss and bowing like an actor during curtain call, she raised a gun from her side and shot out the camera.

You watched the footage a few times before deciding to try and print off an image of her to see if you could find it anywhere else. Yes, printing was old fashioned, but you preferred having a piece of paper to hold up for comparisons. However, every page you printed contained only an unknown symbol that looked vaguely like the astrological symbol for Aries. 

You printed it three times with the same results before Athena locked down completely to quarantine a program. That’d gotten Winston’s attention _real_ quick.

“What’s happened,” he had demanded, moving quickly to stand behind you as the warning rang out through the base.

“I don’t know,” you said, furrowing your brow in confusion. “I was just tracking the Junkers. I’d told you that they’d disappeared, yeah?”

“Yes,” Winston replied curtly as he gently pushed your chair aside to access the keyboard. “I fail to see how that would cause Athena to respond this way.”

“There was an external access program downloaded via a QR code,” Athena put in in between reading out her status.

Winston sighed and looked at you with an arched brow. “What were you doing, exactly?”

“Like I said, I was just watching for the Junkers when I noticed something on a camera in Belarus. I can show you if you’d li-“

“No, thank you. Please just tell me. I don’t want to risk further contamination.”

“Well, I was just going through the feed and there was a strange lady just standing there, _waving_ ,” you continued, “with one of Junkrat’s more distinctive toys next to her. She shot out the camera before either of the Junkers actually showed up on screen, so I thought ‘might as well get a picture of her to see if I can track her.’”

Winston straightened, and looked at the papers clutched in your hands. “Those are the photos, then? Well, when this gets cleared up maybe we can see if we can find her. They’re clear shots, I hope.”

You shook your head and held them towards him. “Well, it was on camera. All that printed was this weird symbol.”

He froze, and then roughly grabbed the papers from your hands. “This was the symbol? Oh no… Athena, was any information leaked? To think we left Gibraltar only to…”

“Minor personnel files on present members of Overwatch - birth dates, skills sets, daily schedules, medical readings, as well as…”

“Those aren’t exactly ‘minor,’ Athena,” Winston replied in minor panic as he began typing rapidly. He paused, eyes wide, and demanded “For confirmation, present means what exactly?”

You stood to the side nervously. This could be your biggest screw up since Dublin, and your heart was beating a staccato against your ribs at the idea that this opportunity, too, would be snatched from you.

“Present members designates currently active and confirmed members. Potential members includes subsets ‘Old Gang,’ with two subsets, and ‘potentials.’ Subsets of ‘Old Gang’ are…”

He let out a relieved sigh and a mirthless laugh. “Well, at least we know who’s safe and who isn’t now. Athena, please notify Lena about the breach. She’ll want to check on Emily.” Winston looked at you out of the corner of his eyes and frowned. “I hope you know how dangerous this was.”

“How was I supposed to know that someone put a QR code over the camera feed,” you replied after a sincere apology. “I’m not a computer scientist or video editor. I thought it was static.”

Winston let out another exasperated huff. “I suppose I can’t blame you for that. But still, we have to take precautions if you’re going to continue hunting after these men. I know you’re angry with them, hell, I’d be too if I were in your place. But please, wait a little while until Athena and I can get some stronger security protocols in place.”

“… You’re taking this _surprisingly_ easily.”

“I know what it’s like to want revenge. And honestly, your ability to track them this way is admirable. It’s a very useful method to have on hand if we need to keep an eye on mobile threats. Another thing to add to your file,” he said with a grin. “But, until I can beef up security, you’re on Athena’s restricted list.”

You groaned. “Now what am I going to do with my free time?”

“You could always train more.”

You threw yourself into it, resenting the idea that the strange woman had killed the Junkers before you could make them as miserable as they’d made you.

At first training had just been throwing you at different problems and recording to see how you solved them and how quickly. You were painfully average when compared to the rest of Overwatch’s old database figures in regards to time, though usually the problem was solved in an inventive and, at times, impressive way. You were very good at codebreaking though - having studied so many ancient handwriting systems in the archives you were able to suss out symbols with one of the quickest times on record.

Slowly combat and tactical training had been added in, along with some refreshers on basics you’d learnt as a Scout as a kid. Knot work, tracking, orientation, that kind of stuff. So simple you could almost sleep through it.

The combat training was exhausting though. For some reason they seemed to expect you to be able to complete an obstacle course while avoiding random “gun” fire without getting too winded. You were reminded of laser tag every time they made you run it. Eventually you admitted to being better at stealth whenever you had played laser tag in the past; hiding around corners and constantly moving to new hidey-holes after shooting an opponent. 

The admission proved useful, as the obstacle course quickly was replaced by sniper training, which you were passable at but no shining example. Trying one last configuration, Winston finally created a good algorithm for you: stealth with a silenced pistol in hand.

The idea that you were effectively being trained to be a covert ops was amusing. You’d entertained being a spy as a child, being enamoured with the spy films of the late 1900s and early 2000s (something that also fuelled your interest in acting). However, you’d realised quite early on that the idea of killing someone sat _very_ badly in your stomach.

Winston made a small concession on that, saying that being capable of mercy was admirable. Ultimately he stressed the necessity of being able to kill in self defence should the need arise, and so Lena taught you how to shoot and the basics of fisticuffs.

You preferred the taser at any rate.

As the months wore on, you slowly learnt more about Overwatch’s history, and (more importantly) where the rest of the team was. While you enjoyed spending time with Lena, she _had_ implied there were more people involved with this ‘project.’

Other than her, Winston said there were five known members who had received and responded to the message he had sent out. 

The first, a Texan, politely declined, disagreed strongly with the fact you’d been recruited given the state of things, and ultimately wished the three of you the best. 

Two others, both Europeans, said they needed more time to consider: one due to an issue of morals; the other due to not wanting to worry his family. 

The fourth, an older German guy, said that he was fighting the Crusade on his own terms now (you could practically hear the capitalisation in his voice) but would see about joining forces in the future. 

Finally, there was a Japanese man who claimed he had family business to take care of first.

“Damn it,” you overheard Winston telling Lena one day. “I just wish that things could be the way they were. I miss being able to actually being able to do good side by side with the best examples of humanity.”

“Aw, cheer up, luv. I’m sure they’ll all be back. You’ll see.” 

Winston occasionally remarked upon a blip in Antartica, how it wasn’t ever in the right place, but couldn’t get any calls to go through to the station at the pole. He was cautiously optimistic, but obviously worried.

Meanwhile, Lena had been going out whenever your training schedule allowed. Sometimes it was to see Emily (you’d met her once and thought they were the cutest couple), sometimes it was to find new recruits. One day she came back to base to talk about how she’d met _Lúcio Correia_ of all people. You mostly knew of him in passing, but liked his songs enough to bounce to them when they came on the one local station.

Finally, Winston announced to you that Athena’s security feature upgrades were complete. You were back at the console as quickly as you could be.

It seemed like a glorious way to spend your day off, after almost literally a _month_ since you had last been able to try and locate the Junkers. Apparently they were active again, most recently in Washington D.C. stealing the Smithsonian’s collection of antique jewellery and precious stones (amongst them the Hope Diamond). You felt an odd sense of relief that they weren’t dead, and rationalised it as being glad you could mess with them some more.

It seemed the perfect time to sit in front of one of Athena’s consoles with a glass of ice tea and track them through the country of your birth. You smiled at the idea of Junkrat’s annoyed screeching when you, once more, ruined his day from afar. Roadhog’s annoyance would be more insidious, but you made sure to keep a can of defence spray on you in case you ever ran into him again (now with capsicum, for extra burning).

The trail they left was even more obvious than in Ireland, though this time it was with bars and the complaints were more about the lack of real beer than the weather.

When it became clear they were heading for New York City, it was simple enough to know they meant to hit the Metropolitan Museum; you’d paid enough attention to their heists to know they usually went for jewels and physical gold over much else. The Federal Reserve would have been another potential location, so you kept an eye on both until you saw their distinctive silhouettes creep up to the Met.

A grin broke out on your lips. _Finally_.

Reaching for you cell, you looked up and dialled the NYPD.

After almost a minute of ringing, the line was finally picked up.

“ _Hol-_ , uh, hello, you’ve reached the New York Police Department,” came a bored sounding woman with a rather noticeable accent. “How can I help you?”

“Hello, I’m in Central Park just near the Hamilton statue, and I’d like to report a break-in in progress.”

“Break-in to where, lady? A car, a bike, an apartment…”

Your brow furrowed in confusion - according to your map of New York there weren’t any buildings near the Hamilton statue other than the museum.

“Uh, the Met. I think it’s those two weirdos, you know those Junkers from the news?”

“Don’t watch much news,” the woman replied glibly. “Could you, I don’t know, describe them to me?”

“Well, uh, one of them is a bit over six feet tall with wild yellow hair and really deep gold eyes. He’s got no shirt, a bionic arm and peg leg (both on the right side), and a tire of some sort strapped to his back. The other’s a big fat guy, about a head taller than the other, and has a pig-shaped mask.”

The woman had been humming in agreement after each description, probably taking notes, and gave out what sounded like an amused snort before coughing. “Care to describe him some more?”

“Oh, well, he’s real skinny on top of it all, a cool skull and crossbones tattoo on his right shoulder, only the crossbones are sticks of dynamite. Oh, and he's covered in soot or dirt or something. Dunno.”

“Nah, meant the big one.” She sounded like she was grinning.

Your video feed showed the Junkers blowing a hole in the side of the building and jumping in through the flames.

“Look… they just blasted in.” You were really confused now - usually by now the dispatcher was thanking you for the anonymous tip and sending off officers. “They’re entering through the center bit, you know the glass wall facing the park?”

“Right, I make a note of that. Hang on a tick.” The phone became muffled as she talked to someone else in the room with her, and then she was back. “Right, sorry about that. Don’t worry, the NYDP is on it’s way.”

You paused - something was definitely off. “Right, well, I’m gonna hang up and get the hell outta dodge. These whackos have bombs-“ An explosion went off in a corner of the building on screen. “- and I don’t wanna be here when y’all come to book ‘em.”

Without waiting for her response, you cut off the call.

NYDP. Not NYPD.

Well, hopefully she was just new, or a native Spanish speaker who just finished a call with someone in that language.

You couldn’t still shake the feeling that something was wrong.

This feeling was proven right when it took another twenty minutes for the police to show up to the Met. By the time the Junkers had ascended to the roof and jumped into a helicopter with the weird Aries symbol, the cold nervousness had coalesced into a stone in your stomach.

Talon. With the Junkers. Or maybe the other way around.

Winston wasn’t happy, but he was still understanding and told everyone to be on guard before trying to contact the old Overwatch members who’d responded again. You weren’t allowed to do anymore tracking without him present though, something you agreed was a good idea.

A few days later you were in the kitchen, making him a cake to apologise. It was just after training, and your taser battery was empty. Putting it on charge, you focused on the cake. You’d just finished mixing the batter when Athena announced there were intruders, immediately followed by announcing that someone was trying to hack the system.

With the roar of an engine, an explosion rocked the hall to the dorm rooms outside, followed by a familiar voice calling for mayhem.

Taking a risk, you had tried to reach your room anyway; you’d left a pack of full batteries there this morning.

But now here you were, back in the kitchen. Hiding behind between a counter and a dishwasher.

You had just gotten out of sight when the door swung open to reveal Junkrat. He paused, surveying the multiple rows of counter space.

“Ya know, this is kinda like that one old flick with that raptor and them kids in the kitchen. ‘Cept I ain’t looking to try and eat ya.” He chuckled as he moved further into the kitchen, a concussion mine in hand. “Unless ya ask nicely.”

You pressed further into your hiding spot, hoping he’d move to the door that led to the cafeteria and the rest of the base.

“Ooh, yer making cake? Ha ha… What’s the occasion, love?” He snickered loudly. “Issit someone’s birthday?”

Junkrat was circling through the kitchen, slowly coming closer to where you were, and calling your name softly. You put down the useless taser quietly and moved your hand to your pepper spray. He clattered something across the counters with another chuckle.

“The bastards at Talon are real grouse, they are. Got me and the Hog a sweet deal with the bastards; promises that we get ta blow some stuff up for them, bit of robbing in the mean time, chance ta get back at ya after months of yer calling coppas on us… And in return? We’ve got ten times the moolah we did before, promises of more, and access to files on known Overwatch personnel, courtesy of that Mexican bitch who won’t give me her real name. Lady Shadow, or whatevs. By the by, yer file’s _very_ int’resting, love.”

He kicked open a larger cabinet, and hummed in disappointment. “Ya got loads of great skills. Good on ya, being a Scout. Very useful. When I get ya back home to lovely ol’ Straya you’d not need to be house sat like some dog. Which is downright helpful in me quest of convincing ‘Hog not ta off ya. He’s fucking pissed as shit at ya.”

You bristled at his statements - you weren’t some pet to be collected. Standing slowly, you moved to aim the pepper spray at where his head would be. “ _I’ll show you pissed..._ ” you thought as he continued to talk.

“Got a deal with him, though, that’s got me spewin’ a bit. Ya see, I don’t want ta hurt ya, unlike him. Deal is that I get ta keep ya and he can't say anythin' 'bout it. Provided I find ya first… Finders keepers ‘n all that. Honestly, should already be that way - I saw the ya on the news first, saw ya in the library first. Even saw ya here first. Now I just gotta get ya. If _he_ gets ya first though, well…”

Then he was face to face with you, and for a split second your eyes met.

He instinctively ducked just in time to miss the spray that shot towards him. Some landed on his back, and he hissed in pain as it sank into some abrasions there. Before you could readjust your aim, he was grabbing your wrist and pulling you out into the open.

Momentum again was against you as you were thrown across the countertop, the edge jutting harshly into your thighs.

Junkrat wasted no time in pinning you to the counter, hands closed around your wrists and his left knee shoved between yours. Leaning over you, his warm body seemed to burn into your back. The scent of sulphur and ash filled your nostrils, and he hissed in pain.

“Did ya really have to spray me again,” he said. “You need some new tricks up your slee- ow, _fuck_ this hurts…”

“Get off me,” you hissed as you writhed.

He chuckled. “Keep struggling, sweetheart, and I may crack a fat.”

“What does that even _mean_?!”

Pressing you further into the counter, he whispered against your ear “Means you feel almost as nice as setting off a nice, _big_ explosion...”

You froze, and in the silence you heard the ratta-tat-tat of gunshots in the distance. 

“You’re disgusting,” you spat, trying to once more wrench your hands from his grasp.

He breathed out a laugh. “And yer fun to mess with.”

“Oh, yes, this is great fun,” you bit out. “Why don’t you go have fun with someone else?”

Junkrat hummed. “‘Cause I like ya,” he said quietly as he leaned back and slid his hands to your waist, distractedly massaging the skin revealed by your shirt riding up.

You growled and hooked an elbow around, catching him in the jaw. He guffawed, and re-pinned you to the counter on your back. This position was more painful than the last, as the new cant of your hips on the edge of the counter compressed your lower spine.

The closer proximity of Junkrat also was not doing good things to you. Your heart was beating faster, your stomach was fluttering… 

You cursed your nerves, upset at how wound up he was getting you. Annoying bastard.

Junkrat’s eyes bored into yours as he moved both your wrists to his bionic hand. His gaze was heavy, and you felt heat rising on your cheeks. Slowly, he brushed his other hand over your face, catching your lips with the tip of his thumb. You turned your head away, and his fingers fell to your neck.

They fluttered across the rapidly pulsing artery there, down to your collarbone, and up to your jaw with an almost reverent softness. You bit back a sigh and resisted the urge to lean into his touch. Then his hand was gone.

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye to see that he had rested his elbow on the counter next to you and propped his head up to watch you sideways. He raised an eyebrow when you turned to glare at him.

“Why is it yer only mad about that now, I wonder,” he muttered.

“Maybe because I don’t like you all that much.”

He let out a soft snort. “Yer being _surprisingly_ sooky ‘round someone who you say ya don’t like much. Least in my book. Can’t say I mind, though. It’s nice to feel wanted, even if it is another act…”

As he said this he moved his left hand to your thigh and pulled it around his hip.

You inhaled sharply as this action brushed his hips more firmly against yours. You both groaned slightly at the sensation when he shifted. Your eyelids fluttered and when you refocused you found yourself staring into his eyes. His pupils were so large it was hard to see the golden irises.

“Strewth, aren’t you a beauty,” he muttered as he leaned in, focus dropping to your lips.

You almost leaned up into him… and a burst of gunfire in the hall reminded you of where you were.

You breathed in deeply as he leaned down towards your mouth and smacked your forehead into his nose.

“God _fuck_ ,” he exclaimed as he reared back, hand flying to his nose. His other hand tightened around your wrists, metal biting into the flesh.

Bringing up your other leg, you tried to kick his peg leg out from under him. Unfortunately, given your position, all you managed to do was give him more room to pin you with your legs around his hips.

“Stop throwing a _goddamn_ wobbly,” Junkrat gasped, grappling you as you finally managed to free a hand and rake it across his chest with a snarl. “Fucking hellcat…”

He managed to pin you down once again, this time with his hips nestled snugly against your own with your legs spread around him. His hands, for all the force they were exerting, were trembling like leaves around your wrists. He looked almost demonic, staring down at you with golden eyes, wild hair, sooty brow, and bloodied face. His entire frame was twitching from the pain the must have been ricocheting through it. He leaned further into you, panting in exertion.

You writhed as you felt his burgeoning erection against you. He whined and leaned down to brush his chest against you, simultaneously crushing you with his bandoleer.

“God _fucking_ damnit,” he moaned. “You feel so _good_ …”

You blushed and bit back your own moan (which was _definitely_ in discomfort and _not_ in any way out of pleasure) as his nose brushed yours.

It was at that moment that Lena came bursting into the room, followed by Roadhog, guns blazing.

Her back to you, Lena called out your name. “We need to get to Winston - he’s pinned and only just managing to keep whoever it is hacking us out of the sys-“ She landed at a different vantage point and gasped at the sight of Junkrat pinning you down.

In a flash, she was kicking him in the head. “Get offa her, you absolute _wanker_ ,” she exploded at him before flashing about to shoot at him from a variety of angles.

Junkrat cursed, throwing his bionic arm up as a shield as he moved back. You scrambled off the counter towards your taser and pepper spray.

And came face to face with Roadhog, who was casually kicking the pepper spray under the cabinets. He laughed, a dark and foreboding sound, and raised his gun towards you.

Junkrat, starting to engage Lena, shouted “Oi, ya bastard, I got ta her first, d’ya hear?”

“You alright, love,” Lena called over to you, “or should I kill this... this bloody bastard?”

“I ain’t even done anything ta her,” Junkrat protested as their fight began in earnest.

This all registered, but you had bigger things to worry about as you dodged under Roadhog’s gunshot and slid towards your taser. Behind you, you could hear Roadhog opening drawers and shoving utensils into the gun. Your hand closed around the taser and you rolled out of the way of the next shot.

Looking back, you saw an assortment of spoons and forks embedded in the wall. Roadhog was staring at you as he reloaded, and you could see him grabbing knives now.

Behind him, you could see a concussion mine on a counter a few aisles away. Junkrat must have left it there while looking for you…

You had a plan.

So long as the explosions that Junkrat was setting off on the other side of the kitchen didn’t hit the mine.

“Look, Roadhog,” you began, ducking around the cabinets towards the battery you’d left on charge. “I know about your messed up deal with Junkrat. Not sure I like it…”

A gunshot blasted towards you, and you ducked down just in time to avoid the blades. Roadhog laughed again, grabbing for more utensils.

“But! He’s right,” you continued as you took a risk to jump over the counter into the next aisle. “He definitely got to me first. Had me pinned, just there…”

Roadhog merely pointed the gun at you when you popped up to indicate the spot, and growled. “Fight’s not over.”

Popping back into cover, you heard the blast of the gun again. “Oh, come on, you mean until Talon pulls out it’s open season on me?”

Roadhog laughed again, jumping up onto the counter top two aisles away. Your eyes widened and you drew back into the now much smaller corner of cover and crawled on your belly towards the battery.

“C’mon out, little piggie,” he said with a voice like gravel.

You knew you had to get him to shoot again - in the time while he was reloading you would be able to reach your battery. Opening the cabinet next to you, you rifled through it. Pots, pans, rolling pins… Finally, you settled on a painted wooden bowl roughly the same colour as your hair. Carefully, you shuffled forward, holding it up with a metal rolling pin.

“Please be either stupid or blind enough for this to work,” you muttered to yourself. A moment later, you had your answer as the bowl was knocked off the pin.

It rolled away, pierced with an assortment of small kitchenware, and Roadhog laughed.

The laughter quickly devolved into an angry roar when you shot to your feet and ran to the battery, turning over the batter bowl in your haste.

You dropped to the ground, pulling open one of the cabinet doors for cover as you reloaded. Hopefully it would be thick enough to keep the shrapnel from Roadhog’s gun from getting to you.

In the end, it wasn’t the gun you had to worry about.

Instead, a large hook pierced the door, lightly nicking your shoulder in the process. With a horrendous screech of metal, Roadhog pulled the now wrecked door back towards himself.

“Firewall layer one is down,” came an update from a nervous sounding Athena over the intercom. “Winston is still holding ground, but Reaper is starting to get through his shields.”

Lena shouted a wordless scream of dismay as she continued to dodge the grenades Junkrat was lobbing after her. His left hand was fishing for something in the bag on his hip, but you didn’t have time to take in anything else as you slid the taser battery into place and turned it towards Roadhog.

He opened his arms wide in challenge before leaping off the counter to charge at you.

You ran down the aisle towards the concussion mine and threw it back towards the ruined cake. It landed just in front of where Roadhog stopped, and he turned to face you.

“Time to squeal,” he said, aiming his hook at you.

“Couldn’t agree more,” you replied as you shot the taser towards him.

He flinched aside, and laughed when you missed. The laughter cut off abruptly when you smiled. 

You squeezed the trigger and sent the electrical charge into the real target.

The concussion mine beeped once before detonating at his feet, splattering batter across the wall and knocking Roadhog into the corner of the counter.

You ran up, grabbing the metal rolling pin along the way, and brought your makeshift weapon down on his head and back repeatedly as the taser recoiled into itself. There was shrapnel embedded in the fat of his back, and he struggled weakly, obviously disoriented by the explosion. Slowly, his movements became more and more uncoordinated.

For good measure, you shocked him once, and he slid to the ground with a groan. You paused, and checked his pulse.

Still alive. You weren’t sure if that was a good thing.

From the fight on the other side of the room, Junkrat was yelling again. “Oi, is he dead? Better not’ve carked it, ya bastard! I’m the only one that gets ta kill ya!”

Lena took advantage of his momentary distraction to kick his bionic knee, catching it on the side. Junkrat stumbled and threw a cherry bomb in her direction. She raised her arms to shield against the relatively minor explosion, stepping back. Suddenly she was shouting in pain and fighting against a small bear trap on her ankle.

Junkrat giggled wickedly. “Gotcha!”

His victory was short lived, his laughter cutting off when you tased him. He juddered against the shock and soon slumped over unconscious. Looking down, you saw that the voltage was set higher than it had been in Dublin.

Lena was hissing in pain when you came over to check Junkrat’s pulse. You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding - he wasn’t dead either.

“Ow… Well, I can see why you don’t much like him,” Lena said, grimacing as she pried the bloodied teeth of the trap from her leg. “I’d certainly be a tad bit pissed at an asshole like that, were he to treat me the way he did you. He didn’t do nothing to you, did he?”

You blushed at her concern. “No, he didn’t do anything to me. Other than pin me to the countertops.”

You were _not_ going to tell her about how you’d taken a weird pleasure in the experience.

“Good,” she replied. She stood, breathing sharply when she put weight on her foot. “Now, we’ve gotta get to Winston. Athena, status report?”

“Firewalls two through five are still functioning. Winston’s shields are at twenty-five percent. Shall I ping him to let him know you’re on your way?”

“No, don’t,” you said. “We don’t want to risk losing the element of surprise.”

Lena leaned into you for support as you hobbled out of the kitchen together. Pausing for a moment at the door, you turned back and dropped to your knees near your original hiding spot.

“Ok, let’s go,” you said as you rejoined her.

“Should ‘prolly stop at the infirmiry first. There’s some bandages I can put on my leg to tide us over ‘til we’ve got things back under control.”

“Yeah, sounds good. We can’t have you unable to run, especially now.”

A few minutes later, you were both running down the halls towards Winston.

The battle looked like it was almost over when you arrived. Winston was trapped at one of the consoles, unable to leave as he countered the hacking attempts, and equally unable to do anything beyond put up shields against the repetitive shotgun blasts from a man dressed all in black.

Lena charged in, drawing his attention with a chirp of “Don’t you worry, love, the calvary’s here!”

The white mask turned away from Winston, allowing you sneak in to hide behind a pillar near the centre of the room.

“Firewall two is down, Winston,” Athena announced.

“I know.” Winston sounded very stressed as he continued to tap away at the keyboards. “Took your time getting here, Lena” he called over his shoulder, seeing you and winking.

You winked back as you readied the taser.

“Aw, Winston, you know I’ve got a problem with that.”

The masked man in black, Reaper, disintegrated into mist to avoid her shots and flew up to the top of the room. He rematerialised from one of the hanging lights, and shot at her from the new vantage point. She jumped back and carefully shot the light down.

The man fell with the shade, turning into mist until he hit the ground. Reforming, he stood facing her with guns drawn. You aimed the taser at his back, and squeezed the trigger.

He screamed wordlessly in pain before turning to mist.

And then the mist was coming at you. 

“Shit, shit, _shit_ ,” you said as you flung yourself to the side. There was nothing to hide behind; you’d have to rely on your luck. And you knew that you’d already had your fair share of that today.

His gunshots caught you, knocking you back. You landed hard, rolling to stare at the ceiling in shock.

Your chest felt like it was on fire, and you coughed wetly as he came to stand over you.

You aimed the taser again, but he contemptuously stomped on your wrist. The pain caused you to release the weapon, crying out. You clutched your injured appendage and stared up at the wraith as he raised his gun at you point blank.

Lena flashed around him, and he turned to mist briefly.

Your fingers slipped as they went to your pocket, but you grasped the cylindrical form of the pepper spray firmly and sprayed it into the mist just as he reformed before you.

Reaper coughed. Then he cocked his head to the side.

“Hm. Spicy,” he said, aiming at you again. “Reminds me of Mrs. Renfros.”

The shot rang out, hitting you in the stomach. Reaper stared at you for a few moments as you bled out before returning his focus to Lena.

Your teeth dug into your lower lip to try and refocus the pain as you tried to staunch the wound with your injured hand. Your stomach felt like warm, but raw ground beef and hot dogs. You didn’t look down.

Instead you grabbed the taser again and turned the voltage to the highest setting. Gritting your teeth, you dragged yourself to the pillar and leaned against it heavily as you fought your way back to your feet.

Lena had seen you go down, but hadn’t seen you get back up yet. She was oddly silent as she shot at Reaper. Reaper, for his part, advanced through the hail of bullets easily as various parts of his body turned to mist and reformed.

Suddenly Winston was dropping on him from above. Reaper ducked, but Winston managed to grab hold of one of his arms and swing him around. When he finally let go, Reaper went flying across the room and hit the side of a desk with a sickening crack.

“Winston, firewalls three and four are down.”

Winston screeched and ran back to the computer as Lena emptied her guns into Reaper.

With a shaky arm, you raised your taser and shot at him as well.

The nightmarish man gave a final yell of pain before disintegrating into dust. For once you felt only peace about the idea of having killed someone.

In fact, you felt peace about everything. Everything was peaceful and nothing hurt.

Oh, look, the floor.

The rest of the encounter with Talon exists only as snapshots to you.

Winston ordering Athena to shut down. 

_“We’ll have to leave for…”_

Lena injecting you with something as she and Winston hurried to the exit. 

_“Think she’ll…”_

_“…can’t, we’ve got to leave”_

A woman in blue who looked terribly out of place in the desert outside.

_“…miss something…”_

When you finally woke up again, you were in a medical bay, laying on a sterile white bed. You shifted under the starched sheets, drawing the attention of the unfamiliar Chinese woman next to you.

She greeted you by name, putting down her book and adjusting her glasses. “Glad to see you’re awake. Here, let me call Winston and Lena.”

“Where are we,” you croaked.

“Watchpoint: Colorado. Lucky I met you guys before you got so far away from the Pole.”

You turned groggily to look at her. Your tongue felt numb as you spoke.

“Who’re you?”

“I’m Zhou Mei-Ling, part of the science division with Overwatch. It’s nice to meet you, though the circumstances could be better..”

Lena and Winston joined the two of you shortly after you introduced yourself, looking equal parts worried and happy.

After a few minutes of talk with your three team mates, it became clear that you had evacuated Atacama, leaving everything but Athena's main drives behind. Dimly, you wondered what Junkrat's reaction to these events would be. 

You imagined him being furious that you'd managed to spoil another of his wins. And yet, you also imagined him being worried over your state. He'd said he liked you. What an idiot.

Slowly, you fell back asleep.

But you were smiling.


	3. Interlude: Ruminations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA Wherein Roadhog Ruminates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kunmanara = Pitjantjatjara replacement name for deceased person.

Junkrat was amusing, thinking he could challenge Reaper. And all over that _girl_. I hated her.

Not for the reasons the Rat obviously thought. I no longer wanted to kill her over the various failed jobs since we’d encountered her. She’d more than made up for it by drawing Talon’s attention to us (even if we were originally mere pawns in their assault on Overwatch).

No. Now I simply wanted to kill her to shut the idiot up.

Mostly because of one too many nights of crashing in motel rooms and under bridges, dreaming of the Australia I knew… of the people whom I’d lost… only to be woken by that bean pole shuddering and choking back whispers of her name as if it were a prayer.

One too many meals with conversation centred around the dossier Junkrat had studied over and over again. One too many sappy smiles. One too many moments of distraction. One too many questions about his chances with her.

My god, how I wanted to kill her to shut him up.

Yet, going by his reaction to her death at Reaper’s hands, even her demise wouldn’t shut him up.

Reaper didn’t use his guns, but he didn’t hold back either.

At least, until I stood up.

There was still something in the back of my head, some strange niggling thought, whenever I saw the Rat come close to crying. I didn't like it, or the way it always forced me to come to his aide.

As he pulled himself over to me, laughing in defiance of his pain, I finally admitted what it was.

He reminded me of... of _Kunmanara_.


	4. Chapter One: The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA Wherein The Plot Finally Starts

It was a bit disconcerting how oddly happy Junkrat seemed as he slung some frag grenades towards you and your teammates. 

Well, since explosives were involved, perhaps the whole ‘happily throwing grenades’ thing wasn’t _that_ disconcerting. No - what was more disconcerting was how the hard expression he’d had when he first jumped into the heliplane melted first into confusion, and then into one of near elation upon seeing you. The man wore his emotions on his metaphorical sleeves. All that was clear was that he was happy to see you, even while trying to hit you with a collection of his explosive ordinance.

You were, for your part, definitely of mixed emotion to see him again.

This was because his entire presence was to ruin your mission.

It definitely _wasn’t_ because you had been hoping to see him again, no. You had seen him now, so that was no longer something to hope for. You’d seen his stupid face. Now you could go back to hoping to never see him again.

But, anyway, back to the mission.

It was supposed to have been a simple pickup mission. A simple in and out, and thus easy enough to send you out on for your first field experience. One of the older members of Overwatch, Genji, had gotten in contact with Winston after the assassination of Tekhartha Mondatta to warn about how another Omnic, Zenyatta, may be next in line. The two Omnics had apparently shared equally important positions within the Shambali movement, and with the death of Tekhartha a lot of his followers had turned to Zenyatta for inspiration and guidance.

Needless to say, this had bumped Zenyatta up the list of potential recruits very quickly. Lena looked unbelievably relieved when he accepted the offer to work with Overwatch before she’d even finished her spiel.

You _had_ always wanted to see Nepal, but there wasn’t much time to do anything beyond refuel the heliplane and load up Zenyatta’s meagre personal effects. You’d been able to send a few pictures to your parents, anyway. The gardens were almost bare in the late fall, but the scene was idyllic enough for your family to enjoy regardless.

You also got to talk to Mei a lot. She was there mostly as a translator, if the need arose, though she also had a lot of insight into the history of Nepal and the implications of Omnics following the path of the Buddha.

Drawing upon your glancing knowledge of world religions and philosophy, you’d had hours of discussion on the subject of ‘do Omnics have souls’ on the flight between Colorado and the temple. You were both of similar mind on the issue, though a bit leery of potential flare ups between Omnics and humans if both Tekhartha and Zenyatta managed to be killed.

Lena had found it a boring discussion, stating flatly “Course they have souls. Nothing’s different ‘tween us and them ‘cept that they have processers while we’ve got neurochemicals.”

After Zenyatta joined you, it didn’t take long for the plane to be soaring over the mountains once more. Lena had just tapped out a message to Winston on the console that you all were en route back home with Zenyatta when another heliplane was sighted in the distance. 

Lena groaned in dismay, cursing under her breath as she adjusted the flight pattern. “Better not be bloody Talon.”

“It is,” you said, looking out the window and seeing that annoyingly familiar symbol. “Think you can outrun them?”

Lena laughed. “I’m an ace pilot, in case you forgot! Everybody hang on to something, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeves!”

No sooner had you, Mei, and Zenyatta firmly attached yourselves to the ship did Lena sharply pull up into a cloud. Using her radar system, she carefully piloted around a series of mountain peaks at a breakneck speed. Finally, the clouds parted. No sign of the enemy plane.

“Ha, take that,” Lena shouted triumphantly before pulling around another mountain to regain the previous course. “Should be a bit easier now.”

No sooner had she said this did another Talon plane come down from atop the mountain.

“Well, now, that’s just unfair,” said Mei as Lena tried to outflank the new ship.

You clutched onto the side of the ship, unable to follow your trajectory beyond the quickly rising and falling altitudes, sharp turns, and occasional barrel roll. You felt sick to your stomach.

Then the doors had been blasted off the left side of the ship, and soon Talon operatives were rappelling down. You and Mei kicked the first few out as they landed as Lena shouted for Zenyatta to start unpacking the parachutes in case the ship came down.

Fortunately for your conscience, a lot of the Talon soldiers had harnesses that were still attached to their ship. Unfortunately, dangling over a mountain range in a moving plane was not exactly a safe past time. You tried not to think about it too hard and instead focused on keeping them out of the plane.

Then Roadhog came flying in, his weight listing the ship to the side and causing you and Mei to stumble as Junkrat landed behind him. They both had parachutes strapped on, and were wearing light sweaters and scarves. Junkrat’s was already scorched and missing the right sleeve.

Mei took defense, creating ice walls to keep Zenyatta and Lena out of danger, while you were left to attempt to keep the two Junkers at bay. 

Needless to say, none of you were exactly suited for close range combat. Especially with Junkrat’s grenades rolling around. The little smiling bombs were causing you to have to constantly jump to the side in an attempt to avoid the numerous blasts.

“Oh, fuck this,” you heard Junkrat say suddenly as he turned his grenade launcher and aim at the wing-mounted engine outside.

With a shout of dismay, you ran forward to push the gun down. Just as your hand met the metal and began pushing, the ship lilted to the side.

One day, you and momentum were going to have a _very_ long talk about how helpful it was. Or rather how helpful it wasn’t. But you had very little attention to spare that particular thought at that particular moment.

All you really had attention for was that you were slipping out of the ship.

You shouted for Mei, and briefly saw her and Zenyatta attempt to reach for you beyond the ice wall she had created before you were clinging to the edge of the ship. The ship tried to level out as Lena called to you, but a sudden burst of gunfire from the Talon ship kept her having to weave from side to side.

Your fingers hurt and you were deeply aware of the jagged metal biting into your gloves. You attempted to tighten your grip, but were unable to pull yourself up. Instead, your fingers began slipping. 

Then, suddenly, your hand was being grasped by a wide-eyed Junkrat.

“Hang on, sweets, I’ve got ya,” he shouted.

Then the ship rolled again to avoid a sweep from the Talon ship, and you were both falling.

The air was so cold it stole your breath, and your limbs pivoted wildly before you tightened your grip on Junkrat’s hand. In a blind panic, you pulled yourself to him and locked your arms around his shoulders.

He struggled in your grasp, shouting something. You couldn’t hear what - the wind was too loud. Finally, his mouth got close enough to your ear for you to hear him scream, “-arms! Move your fucking arms! Gotta open the chute!”

With an attempt at a light shove, you were suddenly removed from his person as he fumbled at the parachute’s pull tab. Junkrat, to his credit, looked aghast at this and tried to grab you again, loosing his hold on his grenade launcher, which quickly plummeted out of sight.

“Fucking bastard,” you screamed as you fell, spreading your arms and legs in an attempt to slow down.

Beside you a sudden jutting of rock entered your field of vision. Then you were hitting Junkrat again, burying your face in his chest as your arms locked around his hips.

The parachute was released. Your arms burned as you slipped down a bit, chin catching at his belt as he scrambled to grab the parachute’s steering handles. For a brief moment, you were floating more or less peacefully. At the very least, you levelled out just enough to see the heliplanes buzzing away over the mountain range. Lena seemed to be attempting to sweep back around, but the Talon ship was swiftly joined by the one you’d lost earlier and the plane was forced to continue on it’s way.

Just before they were out of sight, another tiny speck fell from your heliplane. A parachute opened just before an outcropping jutted up to separate you and Junkrat from what was, undoubtedly, Roadhog.

“Well, mate, least we’ve got this chute,” Junkrat said suddenly, looking down at you with a grin. You could feel his chuckle more than hear it. “I’d imagined seeing ya like this quite bit diff’rently, though.”

You blushed hotly. “Funny,” you retorted. “See, I never imagined seeing you like this.”

Emergency parachutes are not, however, designed to carry more than one person. This became readily apparent as Junkrat opened his mouth to continue your banter, only for a series of loud snapping to break both of your trains of thought. And then you were plummeting again, the parachute flapping uselessly behind you as you both screamed.

Dropping the now useless handles of the parachute, Junkrat reached down and pulled you up to his chest, wrapping his arms around you. You screeched in his ear, causing him to jerk away slightly as you wrapped your legs around him and clung on for dear life. The rocks and snowdrifts were coming up fast, whipping past in frightening silence.

He extended one leg beneath you suddenly, and the world jolted.

And jolted, and jolted as you both bounced down and into a patch of snow.

Everything hurt, again, and the scar on your stomach felt hot again for the first time in a month. Slowly, you flexed your fingers and toes, then turned your head slightly from side to side. Well, at least nothing was broken.

“God _fucking_ damn it! Of all the _cunting_ times to _fucking break_ , you absolute goddamn piece of _shit_ ,” Junkrat screamed suddenly, clutching at his peg leg.

Or, rather, the stump of his peg leg.

“What happened to it,” you asked. Junkrat looked at you, mouth dropping open in amazement.

Raising his left hand in a questioning gesture, he replied, “What do you think happened to it? I just fucking bounced us off a goddamn rock face while going at the grand speed of fuck-knows, and you ask what the fuck happened to my leg.” He laughed hysterically. “Fuck me, sheila, I thought you were smart.”

You scowled. “Fine.” You got up and started brushing snow off, shaking the heavy down coat free of the loose powder. Junkrat blinked up at you owlishly. “If you’re going to insult me…”

Junkrat snorted. “The fuck did’ya expect? Me ta be in the mood for tea and Tim Tams?” He held out a hand daintily, and in a mockingly high-pitched British accent said, “Oh, no, _darling,_ don’t you worry none, it’s just me leg’s gone and snapped in half whilst I was saving our asses, is all. Does that all the time. Dearie me. I’m ever so sorry to be an _inconvenience_.”

You gaped at him as he dropped his hand back to his leg, staring at it forlornly. “Well _sorry_ that you had to save my ass, and that I asked a _stupid_ question,” you said angrily. “Maybe the shock of almost _dying_ has affected me somewhat.”

“… The fuck did you ever survive so long if yer so shocked ‘bout it,” he muttered as he rolled up his pant leg to remove the prosthetic limb and inspect the damage.

You kicked snow at him. He sputtered as it hit him in the face. Stalking away, you declared, “Look, I don’t have to take this from you. You’re with Talon, I’m sure they’ll just _love_ that you’ve caught a real, live Overwatch agent. Well, not if I can help it!”

After a moment of incredulity, Junkrat shouted after you, “Oi, where d’ya think yer going, mate?”

“Away from here,” you shouted back.

“You, you can’t just leave me here alone,” he cried out, starting to drag himself towards you through the snow. “I’ve only got but one leg!”

“Don’t worry, Talon will be here for you soon, I’m sure!”

“I don’t got a fucking tracker on me! They’ll never find me!” You paused, and turned to watch him. Seeing this, he clasped his hands in supplication, begging. “Please! I’m balls deep in the fucking frozen cousin of the Never Never here! I’ll die if I don’t have someone ta help me!”

Well, fuck. There was your conscience, rearing it’s head. Suddenly, you felt like a terrible person as you realised how desperate his situation was.

You took a breath. Two. And walked over towards the ridge of the mountain.

Junkrat flailed after you, crying out again in a panicked tone, “No, no, no, pl- _please!_ Where’re you going?!”

Poking though the snow, you found what you were looking for. Holding up the base of his broken leg, you turned to him. His mouth was open in shock as he stared at you, snivelling slightly.

“I figured it would be easier to fix your leg if you didn’t have to start from scratch,” you said.

Junkrat laughed, rubbing at his eyes harshly as he sat up straight again.

“Well, f-fuck, love, aren’t you a damned te-tease.”

You sat next to him as he drew a screwdriver and a Swiss army knife from his pouch and began fiddling with the broken prosthesis. As the wind nipped at you two, his shivers grew in strength until you unzipped your coat and held it around him, holding your front to his back. The snow on his sweater melted into yours as he greedily leaned back into the warmth. 

The shivers lessened somewhat, but you both knew that it was a temporary solution at best. Even more so when you began shivering as well. Eventually, you sacrificed your hat to him, followed by your left glove to keep his human fingers from turning blue. As he slipped it on over his work glove using his teeth, you nestled your hand under your armpit to keep it warm and burrowed as far into the coat as you could. With him focusing on the machinery in his lap, you began to look around.

“H-how’s the pr-progress coming,” you said after what felt like thirty minutes.

“T-th-the b-bolt here’s-s sh-shot,” Junkrat replied quietly, holding up a hunk of metal with his flesh hand. “I-it’d be f-f-fine i-if I had mo-more j-ju-junk, o-or sc-scra-scrap met-metal.” He laughed as he ran his other hand through his hair, the giggles sounding more like gasps. “All wh-what I’ve g-got is m-me bo-bombs ‘n tr-traps, a-and they do-don’t g-got th-the r-right…”

He paused, tensing, and then turned his head just enough to look at you. “Oi, swe-sweets, I-Imma ne-need you t-ta re-re-reach r-round ‘n t-take off m-me arm.”

Your ungloved hand slipped around his front to clasp the coat closed as your right hand wandered down his arm to the straps holding on the prosthetic limb. “A-are you sure?”

Junkrat laughed again. “‘D-druther be able t-ta w-w- _walk_ , m-mate.”

You bit your lip, looking behind you. “H-hang on,” you told him as you stood, pulling the coat back on your body.

Junkrat fell over backwards as you stood. He glared up at you, shivering, and hissed, “W-what th-the f-f-f- _fuck_ …”

You raised a hand, pointing to a ridge a few meters behind you. “There’s probably a c-cave over there. H-hang on.”

As you stepped backwards a half step, Junkrat tried to curse. “D-don’t j-just l-leave me h-here, ya fu-fucking b-bit-“

Unceremoniously, you dragged him up onto the failed parachute, returning to grab the broken leg pieces. He grunted when you dropped them on his stomach, watching you with wide eyes. With a groan, you began dragging the parachute, Junkrat and all, towards the ridge.

It took a bit longer than expected, and when you looked over your shoulder Junkrat looked worryingly blue. You paused to take off your coat, laying it over him, before resuming your trek.

The ridge was much lower than it had looked from the crash site and the snowdrift much more tightly packed than you’d guessed, but when you kicked underneath the edge of the rock the drift opened into a mercifully clear air pocket. Turning, you shoved Junkrat off the parachute and pulled it inside, placing it against the bare stone before returning to shove Junkrat in, throwing the leg components into the opposite corner. He squawked in discomfort when you clambered in on top of him mere seconds later.

This was the tightest fit you’d ever been in. Between Junkrat’s body and the rocky ceiling there was barely enough room for you to move. But that was exactly what you needed.

Turning around, you tried and failed to avoid elbowing him in the side as you pushed the snow into the opening you’d created. After a few attempts, the biting wind stopped whistling through. Awkwardly, you returned to your position on top of the blond Junker.

It was too dark to see him clearly, despite luminous glow of the sun on the snow bank that lit the small space. His eyes were clearly locked on you, however, and he hummed in curiosity as you pulled the coat off him and shoved up his woefully inadequate sweater. His hums grew louder when you did the same with your layered clothing and pulled his human hand to your lower back. With an ungainly movement, you pulled the coat over your back and curled around him.

“W-well, d-darl,” he said in a cocky tone. “I-if I-I’d kn-known all I’d ne-need ta do ta g-get ya pr-pressin’ ‘gaint m-me like th-this w-was be-bein' cold, I-I’d’ve g-gotten us l-locked in a f-freezer.”

“Sh-shut up,” you replied, dropping your head wearily into the crook of his neck. “I-it’s just a survival technique. Sh-sharing b-body warmth.”

He hummed again, tracing his cold nose over your numb ear. Yet, true enough, both of you were slowly starting to stop shivering.

“Th-thank G-God you e-earned that s-survival badge. K-Knew it w-was useful,” he murmured as you both drifted off into sleep.


	5. Chapter Two: Day One, Early Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA You and Junkrat Wake Up and Bicker

You woke with a groan, having slept poorly. Your entire body hurt, and you were still cold. You were also on your side with your back towards the snow plug that made up one wall of the hasty shelter. You distinctly recalled this _not_ being the position you had fallen asleep in. Mostly because your back was at a painfully concave angle while Junkrat’s human arm pulled you against him. Your legs had managed to become entangled, and you could feel him trying to suppress tiny shivers.

Your grogginess instantly cleared, trying to take in what what happening. Where was his other hand? Oh, _ow_ \- there it was. The rivets were catching your hair, preventing you from shifting far. You hissed at the pinching on your scalp.

“G’mornin’ darl,” Junkrat tittered from somewhere above you. “Did ya sleep well?” You couldn’t tell if he was looking at you - your nose was rather uncomfortably pressed into his Adam’s apple.

Good Lord, did he reek of old smoke and burnt hair.

“Slept about as well as I could, given the circumstances,” you replied, trying to unbend your back. His hand tightened at the base of your rib cage. “Let go.”

Junkrat giggled twice before sucking in his breath. “But I’m cold.”

“My back hurts.”

He huffed unhappily into your hair before relaxing his grip. “So does mine, mate,” he said as he did so. “Though, honestly, kinda prefer it ta being slowly crushed ta death underneath you. Surprisingly heavy, you are.”

Pulling back, you saw the dim outline of his body wedged at an awkward angle into the corner of the cave. His hand fell to the curve of your hip.

“Well, at least we didn’t freeze,” you replied tersely as you pulled down your layers once more.

Junkrat giggled again, but stopped suddenly with a whine. His hand tightened on your hip, spindly fingers biting into the bone there. When he spoke again, his tone was rather curt. “Yeah, just spiffy. We’ve survived. Think we could go on and hurry up getting out of this hole already? I need ta take a piss, and yer kinda in my way.”

You groaned in disgust and shoved yourself away from him. “ _Why_ are you getting handsy if you need to pee,” you spat, feeling the cold of the snow plug behind you leeching away your warmth.

You were certain from the exasperated noise he made that, were you able to see his face, he’d be rolling his eyes. “Look, mate, yer a right spunk, but that wasn’t me getting handsy. Ya want hansdy? I’ll show ya handsy. Later. Because right now I’m more looking towards the thing on top of my list of ‘Things I Should Probably Care About’ - avoid pissing meself.”

Your lips twitched into a sneer. “You’re disgusting.”

“Sticks ‘n stones, mate. We gonna move or what?”

Muttering angrily all the while, you kicked the snow drift open. Both you and Junkrat gasped in shock at the bite of the cold wind that howled through the small alcove. You went to thrust your arm into the sleeve of your coat, only for it to be suddenly wrenched from your hands. You glared at Junkrat, now able to see but his narrowed eyes and furrowed brow as he looked out at the snow over the fur-lined hood.

When he spoke, his voice was muffled slightly by the garment. “You know, I’m really starting _hate_ snow.”

“We haven’t even been here a whole day yet. Give me back my coat,” you said as you backed out into the open, holding a hand expectantly towards him.

He glanced at your hand, eyebrow twitching. “No,” he said in a petulant tone, wrenching about in a sudden flurry of effort to put on the coat.

You rolled your eyes, running your bare hand over your hair. The urge to growl in frustration was high. The man was being a literal _child_.

“You can’t really go pee if you don’t get out of the shelter,” you pointed out to him.

He looked at you blankly. You returned the look, raising an eyebrow. He looked away, brow furrowing further as he muttered angrily to himself.

Suddenly Junkrat lurched out of the crevice, prosthetic hand extended towards you. “D’ya really think that me takin’ the coat means I don’t want ta leave this hole? No. I want out, but I’ve kinda been knocked down a peg, and need a bit of a hand to get my footing back.”

He snickered at his own joke, but his grin looked tacked on. “Ya see, ‘cause my peg leg’s broke and I’m gonna use my arm ta fix it.” After a pause, he muttered, “Also, I do kinda need, _yanno_ , help ta stand or whatevs.”

You blinked at him. “Wow. With puns that bad, I may _actually_ go ahead and leave you here.”

The Australian let out a single bark of laughter and smirked at you as you pulled him from the shelter, divesting him of the parachute as you did so. “Oh, ya wouldn’t do that, love. You’ve too good a heart for that.”

“Keep pushing your luck, dude,” you threatened as he leant into you for balance, one arm over your shoulders. You paused, realising something as you held him. “How are we going to do this exactly?”

Junkrat looked away, far pinker than usual, and said haltingly, “Well, see, I’ve gotta have at least one hand free, and then I’ve gotta deal with my strides…”

You shuddered. Or shivered - it was hard to tell which as the wind blew over you and cut through your layers. “I’m not going to help you stand while you do that.”

“… Righto, fair enough. At least help me get propped up on that rock there,” he asked quickly as he indicated a low, flat boulder a few metres away.

Once he was safely propped on the far side of the rock, he quickly slapped away your hands and demanded privacy. You shrugged, glad to escape back to the hollow that had been your shelter for the night.

You looked over the meagre amount of items the cave held. A parachute with broken strings, an ex-leg destined to be scrap metal, your hat, and the odd grenade here and there. You quickly donned the cap and began to pack up the parachute into its bag. Your bare hand was beginning to burn slightly from the cold, and you shoved it against your stomach for warmth.

Wait… stomach…

As if thinking about the organ made it come back to life, your stomach gurgled with a vengeance. You padded your free hand over the bag experimentally, searching for anything that seemed like it would be sustenance.

The first pocket had bombs. As did the second, and the third. As for the fourth, oh look: _more_ bombs. You wondered when he’d even had the time to stuff the thing so full of explosives.

Without looking at him, you called over to Junkrat, saying, “Hey, do you have _any_ food in this bag?”

“What?,” he shouted back. “Oh _right_ , the parachute bag. Uh, check in that pocket there.”

“Which pocket?”

“The one yer hand’s on now, mate.”

You looked over your shoulder to find that he had apparently finished his business and managed, _somehow_ , to prop himself on the near side of the rock facing you. Junkrat smiled at you and nodded in greeting, all the while looking like a ridiculous fluorescent green marshmallow on a stick in the coat he’d stolen from you. It didn’t even look like it fit him properly. Of course, that could be because he didn’t have either arm stuck through the sleeves.

He stuck his face into the opened collar like a turtle, and seemed to be fiddling with something. You watched with vaguely horrified curiosity. Curiosity at just what he could be doing inside your coat.

A few seconds later, it turned out to be just him removing his arm. He snaked his remaining hand out the bottom of the coat to lay the prostheses next to him, popping his head out of the coat at the same time. Seeing you watching him, he tilted his head to the side with a questioning look as he pulled the hood over his head.

“Ya found the food yet,” he asked, then giggled. “Or are ya just jealous over my lovely new coat? It’s very nice. Warm, soft…”

You scowled, fighting back a shiver. “And it’s _mine_.”

“Yeah, well, I got ta it first, so… It’s mine now. But I _could_ be persuaded to share like we did last night, if ya ask nicely.” The flirtatious smile accompanying those words was just on the tame side of lecherous.

Your stomach rumbling again gave you enough cause to simply shoot Junkrat a glare (earning another round of laughter) before you turned back to poke around in the pocket he’d told you to look in. Your face was so cold it was starting to hurt - the sooner you found food and started moving the better. And you’d definitely have to get your glove back.

There was a small collection of protein bars, trail mix, some dried fruit, and several packets of candy. Digging in further, you discovered that the pocket was, in fact, mostly candy. Rolling your eyes, you collected the bag and the peg leg before walking to where Junkrat was perched.

The snow on top of the boulder was disturbed - apparently he’d crawled up over it once he’d finished relieving himself. He merely glanced up briefly at your approach, taking the opportunity to try and tie the loose arm of the coat shut one-handed. He’d even gotten the sleeve cuff between his teeth, trying to pull the loose knot he’d made shut. It almost looked like it had worked, but at the last minute the knot slipped and became undone.

Junkrat growled low in his throat before he tried again. The frustration rolling off of him was almost palpable when the knot failed to close once more.

With a sigh, you set the parachute bag down in front of him and placed the broken leg with the arm. 

“You’re lucky that my clothing’s layered enough, and that I’m hungry enough, that I can overlook this theft for now.” Plucking the sleeve from his grip, you twisted it to thin the downy material enough to tie a simple knot. As you did so, you asked, “Why do you have so much candy in your bag?”

Junkrat was watching you tie off the sleeve, but at your words his eyes flicked to your face with a confused expression. “‘Cause… I like it?”

“It’s, like, eighty percent Pop Rocks.”

He beamed. “Yeah, it’s great, innit? One of them AJs that’s signed on with Talon’s a yank, and he got me a bunch of ‘em when I asked. Ya see, ever since I was a minshie I’d wanted to try ‘em.” Cackling, he added, “ _And_ it’s like a fucking chain explosion in yer mouth, mate! What’s not ta love?”

Jerking the knot twice for good measure, you looked at him flatly. “Maybe the fact that it means we have a ton of candy and not very much food?”

“Ah,” he replied, tapping his nose, “but ya see, I’ve got my _traps_ , and you’ve got yer gun there, so's we can hunt if it comes to it. ‘Sides, all we’s got ta do is find Roadhog. He’s the one who’s got the real tucker.”

You shivered again, this time at the sudden ball of fear in your gut. “Isn’t he going to try to _kill me_ ,” you whispered.

Junkrat leaned in closer to whisper back. “Not anymore, mate. Got him ta swear not ta kill you, if you turned out ta be alive.”

Your eyes locked on to his. His eyes were more a honey brown in the light of the rising sun, you were startled to realise. “How did you do that,” you breathed, forcing your mind back on topic.

He giggled, and leant back to look down his nose at you with a confident smile. “Why, by _extolling_ yer _virtues_ , dove. Also, yanno, pointing out the fact I _did_ , in fact, get ta ya first ‘n all back in Chile. Took a few tries ta get him ta see my point, but what’s important is that he did. In any case, as per our deal, he really can’t say anything now, now can he?”

Your eyebrows twitched in disbelief. So he’d annoyed the man into submission. That was _ever_ so helpful for being sure the giant Australian wouldn’t kill you as soon as Junkrat’s back was turned. You shivered at the idea of having to rely on the mad bomber for personal safety, paradoxical as it would undoubtedly be.

Junrat leaned forward again abruptly, draping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you towards him. “Ya look cold, love,” he murmured as he pressed you against his chest, his shorter arm falling to wrap around your upper torso. Almost as an afterthought, he pulled off your glove with his teeth and returned it.

You stiffened at the unwanted gesture, but he was so _warm_ in comparison to the frigid air that you soon found yourself relaxing. He’d even given you back your glove, and your fingers were rejoicing. 

Junkrat grinned down at you and said in a chipper tone, “Now why don’t we have our brekkie and then get on our way, yeah?”

You hummed in agreement and turned slightly in his annoyingly warm embrace to pull up the bag. Junkrat began humming a tune as you fished out a couple of protein bars, building off of the note your hum had taken. Suddenly your ears perked. You recognised that tune.

“That’s from Pirates of Penzance, isn’t it,” you said as you opened one of the bars and handed it to him.

He smiled as he took it. “Ya know yer Gilbert an’ Sullivan! ‘How beautifully blue the sky, the glass is rising very high,’” he half sang before taking a bite and looking at you expectantly.

Did he want you to continue the song? No, screw that. You busied yourself with opening your own bar instead.

“I don’t know it very well,” you lied around a mouthful of your own protein bar. “Mostly just the major general’s song thanks to using the first stanza as a warm up for plays.”

Junkrat smiled, suddenly looking very young as enthusiasm played across his face. “My uncle Zay was mad about it. Sang parts of it ta me every time we'd celebrate me birthday. I’d love ta teach it ta you when we’re safe and sound in Straya.”

You coughed, choking on your protein bar at the earnest tone. “Why are you so dead set on getting me back to Australia,” you asked once your throat was clear enough.

Junkrat watched you closely as you coughed, and resumed eating only once you had started talking again. “Well,” he said, chewing and swallowing a large bite, “whole idea Roadhog and I’ve got to be out here does _rather_ hinge on eventually getting home anyway. Got a, hehehe, _prezzy_ ta deliver ta someone important. ‘Sides, Roadhog’s already got something he wanted. Several somethings, actually. He’s been hoarding pachimaris, the silly bastard. I saw that, and thought to meself, ‘Yanno, I’d rather like a doll of me own.’” 

He took another bite before continuing, tapping the bar absently on your shoulder when he wound his arm around you again. “‘Cept I ain’t exactly one for stuffed animals. Then I saw you on the telly. Thought you was a right spunk, but it weren’t ‘till our, hehe, _adventure_ in Dublin that I realised just how spunky.” He winked at you, and swallowed the bite. “Then ya went and turned out ta be _interesting_ , and just heaps of fun ta mess with. _And_ ya even helped us out with the plan in the end. Almost got enough ta fill the ute now, by my reckoning. Best doll ever you are.”

You paused. “I’m not sure I like the idea of being collected like a toy.”

“Oi, it wouldn't be, wouldn't be _collecting_. _No_ way. Haha! 'Cause I ain't, I ain't no collector, haha. I'm a _junker_. And that's, that's _why_ I’d offer ya a share of what we’ve collected as incentive. Ta do with as you will.”

“You mean to give back to the museums you stole from.”

He froze, a small scowl on his face. “Now why would ya wanna do that? I was more thinking you could swan ‘bout the house all glitter and shine… Oh, wait. This is that ‘Indiana Jane’ thing again, innit?”

You grinned. “Yup.”

Junkrat shook his head and snickered softly into his bar. “Figures the bird _I_ find’s got morals or some such nonsense ‘bout stuff like that.”

You found yourself thinking over what he’d said, picking it apart for compliments. You were allowed to be vain, even if you did completely detest the man who had spoken the words. Then your face scrunched up in incomprehension. “You’ve called me that a lot today, by the way.”

“What, bird? No I haven’t. Don’t think so. Not yet, at least. Have I?”

“No, spunk. It’s not something dirty, is it, because it is pretty much everywhere I’ve been.”

Junkrat blinked at you before breaking into raucous laughter, clutching you tighter as he bent over your shoulder in reaction to his sudden mirth. “Oh, I’ll be right _stuffed_ , no. It ain’t dirty. Well, least not as I’ve used it just now.” He barely seemed able to pause long enough to breathe between laughs, let alone speak, but somehow he managed it. 

You hit him on the shoulder to get him to let you go. When he did so, you moved to sit on his left rather than practically in his lap. His laughter slowly died as you finished your protein bar and pocketed the wrapper.

“Well, what does it mean in Australia,” you asked once he’d calmed down. Then, in case he needed a reminder, you added, “Spunk.” It proved harder to say aloud in front of him than you’d anticipated, but he didn’t seem to notice or care about that.

Instead, Junkrat looked slyly out of the corner of his eye at you as he ate the remainder of his bar. “Hmm, how should I put it,” he said with a snicker, balling up the wrapper and throwing it over his shoulder. “Means that _this_ wombat’ll likely keep coming back for more once he’s had his root.”

“What do wombats have to do with anything?” Somehow your question elicited even more laughter.

“Everything! Haha, no, wait, means ya ain't a dog, least in my eyes, darl.” He batted his eyelids at you, holding his hand to his heart. When you frowned in confusion, he simply dissolved into _more_ laughter. You felt your anger flare at his obvious attempts to make fun of you.

You hit his shoulder again, harder this time. His laughter died down faster than before, and he parried your next punch to pull you against his side. You blushed when he leant down to brush his nose against yours, golden hazel eyes flicking over your face as he did so. His smile was playful but his gaze was quickly growing lusty, and, though the hold he had was weak, you felt pinned in place.

“D’ya really wanna know,” he murmured, trailing his nose along your cheekbone and lightly dragging his lips across the flesh beneath as he moved towards your ear. “C’mon, love, answer the question.”

You gulped as his hot breath warmed your ear. He sounded like he was trying to bait you, and it was working. The bastard. But, still… Did you really want to know? Your curiosity and slightly bruised pride answered that query very quickly. “Yes.”

Junkrat chuckled lowly, brushing his lips against the shell of your ear, and whispered, “Means yer a fine, _sexy_ lady. Means I look at you and wanna _root_ ya, _hard_.” 

You laughed nervously and pushed easily out of his one armed grip. “Isn’t that flattering,” you said as you went to pick up his prostheses, blushing madly. “Well, even if I wanted to deal with what I’m pretty sure you wanting to root means (and which I _definitely_ do not want to, by the way), I don’t think either of us would enjoy it for very long since it’s, you know, _freezing_. Besides, you have to fix your leg, otherwise we’ll just slowly freeze and/or starve to death.”

When you finally looked at him again, Junkrat was smirking and biting his lip in an obvious attempt to hold in laughter. “Fair enough, mate, fair enough.” He chuckled to himself before holding out his hand. “Give me the arm first. I’ll strip it for parts.”

He laid it over his knee and pulled a wrench and screwdriver from his bag. Placing the idle tool in the coat’s breast pocket as he worked and switching them when necessary, he pulled apart the prosthesis with surprising speed. Occasionally he’d spear the chassis with the screwdriver and whack it against the rock face to loosen a component, but he still managed to work them free without shattering any of them. In what was probably five minutes at most, the arm was nothing more than a collection of assorted metals, plastics, and wires.

You wrapped your arms around yourself before starting to fiddle with your scarf, pacing back and forth as he worked to keep yourself warm. Junkrat ignored you, concentration written into every line on his face. Finally, he turned to pick up the leg. Looking at you, he grinned.

“Ya know, usually it’s me that’s got a hard time sitting still,” he said as he began pulling the broken parts of the leg off the rest of the device.

“You know, usually I’m not freezing my butt off,” you returned, finally finding a way to wind your scarf around both your neck and lower face.

Junkrat snickered. “If that’s what at stake, keep on pacing, mate. Can’t have you losing that - far too valuable a piece.”

Your next step faltered when his eyes flicked up to you with an appreciative stare. Or, more accurately, up to your butt. When he saw you staring at him, he winked and returned to his work with a laugh.

You weren’t sure if you wanted to slap him or continue your banter, and were ashamed to admit that you were blushing again.

On the bright side it at least meant your face was warmer.

In the end, however, the desire to slap him won out.

His bark of surprise echoed over the mountains. “Cripes! What the fuck was that for,” he demanded, rubbing his quickly reddening cheek with his fingers.

“I don’t like you talking about me like that,” you said. It didn’t feel like a complete lie, at least. And yet somehow slapping him had only made you feel worse as guilt rose inside of you at his confused and injured look.

Then his expression hardened briefly before melting back into a mask of joviality. “Oh, yeah, I’d almost forgot. Yer an _actress_. How silly of me ta forget.” Junkrat returned to his work, wrenching the broken bolt off with a strong and sharp movement. “Ya got ta be warm all throughout yer brekkie, and now you want ta get a move on. But, oh _no_! There’s this gimpy-legged ocker what’s messing with yer plans! But, hey, no worries, _mate_! This load’ll get moving right quick.”

His movements were a tad jerkier than before, but he reassembled the leg with the same rapid efficiency he had used to apart the arm. He didn’t look back up at you as he did so, nor as he rolled up the leg of his pants.

You resumed pacing in silence, but couldn’t help looking over at the limb. It was very strange to see someone whose leg ended just before the knee. He had some sort of cover on the leg that he hadn’t removed, and you found yourself wondering what the leg looked like beneath. How had he managed to lose both an arm and a leg? Standing too close to an explosion, perhaps?

“While I admit that my fine looks turn many an eye, didn’t yer mum ever tell ya it’s rude ta stare?” Junkrat’s voice was back to it’s cocky and confident tone, but you could hear the iron warning beneath.

“Sorry,” you muttered as you looked across the snowy plain again.

“Apples, mate,” he replied as he stood. “Don’t bother me none.” Junkrat picked up the parachute bag and carefully threaded his right arm through the loop of the strap before shucking it the rest of the way on. “Now, if ya don’t mind, I’d like to start making our way out of Whoop Whoop.”

You nodded and began walking towards a downwards slope you’d noticed earlier. You didn’t get very far before Junkrat caught you by the elbow.

“Hey, no, not that way,” he said as he pulled you towards a ravine leading deeper into the mountains opposite the path you'd picked. “This way looks safer. Less snow.”

You pulled your arm from his grasp. “Yeah, but there’s tons of it at the top edges. One wrong move and it’s all going to come down on us. Besides, we don't know if it even leads _out_.”

“We’ll be out of the wind though, mate.”

You opened your mouth to contest this, but at that instant a knife of frigid air cut through your sweaters.

“Oh, all right, _fine_. Lead on, Macduff.”

Junkrat looked confused as he took the lead with his hand stuck in a coat pocket. “Name’s Fawkes, but alright, if ya insist.”

“Like the phoenix?”

His answering laugh was oddly hollow as he entered the ravine, but his voice was lilting. “Yeah. For I’m a regular Firebird, ash and dust is all I know. But with a spark and with a word, I'll be back to leap and grow.”

You followed him, silent for a moment. "Nice poem."

He hummed. "Ta."


	6. Interlude: Reverie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA Wherein Roadhog's Sleep Is Ruined By Junkrat

_Boom._ Crack. __

_With a jerk the bot fell over backwards, head nothing more than a sparking ruin of wires and bolts._

_No blood. The enemy never bled._

_Instead they bled us._

_An ocean of rust meets an ocean of blood._

_The seagulls screech like magpies and the crows laugh like kookaburras as they feast on metal and man._

_“Nice shooting today, Mako,” says a smiling face. “We really showed them tin heads what for!”_

_The smile disappears like smoke before my shaking fingers can reach it._

_The explosion is blinding. The air in my lungs is burning._

_I can’t breathe. I_ can _remember._

_Beers passing around the table._

_Most end up before me._

_“Oi, Roadhog, are you and Blue there gonna share the roadies this time or what,” says another voice._

_Glimpses of gold and dust and that voice spitting fire._

_Back at the table, the beers clash to a joyous toast and laughter._

_The smile is back again._

_Closer… I can make out his face again, can touch it. He’s mouthing my name, but the movements don’t match the sound._

_“Oi, Roadhog…”_

_“Roadhog…”_

“Roadhog!”

I snorted awake and almost hit my head on the roof of my hastily constructed snow shelter. 

The radio in my bag barked my name once more.

It was that bean pole again. Even when he wasn't there he made sure to ruin my sleep.

Groaning, I let my head fall back down as I pulled out the device.

“What.”

“Oh, good, you’re finally awake. Now, listen, I’ve got the bird here with me. And, I am happy ta report, as per her request we slept skin ta skin last night, if ya know what I mean.” Junkrat broke off into giggles.

How disappointing. I would have thought the girl had better judgement in survival situations. After all, she'd survived _us_ twice.

“Well, technically, anyway. But just wanted to make clear that I’ve definitely got ta her first now, so… Ya can’t complain. Or shoot her.” 

If I could roll my eyes any harder, they’d fall out of my head. 

“But, anyway, just ta let ya know, I’ve got the heading for the waypoint here. Ya need to head roughly, uh, north… by… north west? Yeah, that’s it. North by northwest. I think… nah, pretty sure. Oh, hey, did’ya ever see that film?”

I grunted. Let him take it as he will.

“It’s good, innit? Even despite the suit. And the lack of real action... I wonder if she’s seen it… Anyhow mate, I should ‘prolly go - told my bird I needed ta piss ta get some privacy. Wasn’t a lie, ta be honest, but wasn’t exactly as pressing a need as I made it out ta be, either. And I don’t want her catching me yapping away and figuring out the plan, so… Nice having this chat with ya! Toodles!”

The radio went silent for a grand total of two seconds.

“Oh, and, uh, don’t call me. I’ll call you! Alright, yeah, bye!”

And, at last… silence.

Slowly, I collected my bag and ate breakfast before exiting my pocket of warmth.

I coughed as the cold air seized in my lungs.

The sun was rising over the mountains to the east, shadows slowly shifting and giving way to frozen brilliance.

Behind me was a steady downwards slope.

Before me, the range.

I marched on.


	7. Chapter Three: Day One, Midday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA Where Our Heroes Spend The Entire Chapter Trudging Single File

The ravine was a deep one, and (while out of the wind, when the wind chose to blow any direction other than north-south) it was also out of the sun and thus still very dark as the sun rose higher in the sky. It was now just peaking over the rim of the ravine, turning the black stone into a swirl of grey and brown. You were beginning to shiver a lot and were developing a headache (courtesy of the bad night’s rest, you were fairly certain), but still warm enough to keep going.

Judging by the sun, it must have been at least ten in the morning by now, but you weren’t sure. All you _were_ sure of at this point is that you had been walking for at least an hour.

Conversation had been light for a while, with you trying to wheedle out a bit more about the poem. You’d gotten a different answer each time.

“Wrote it meself!”

“Oh, it’s just an old jingle from back home. Heh. Almost as old as I am!”

“Eh, some old digger would recite it at near every bottle-o I’d drop in at as an ankle biter.”

“Right, so there was this one time when a bunch’a crows came ta me in my sleep and sang it, yeah? Then they plucked out their tickers ta play cricket with! Was a real nightmare, that. My bird won, though.”

Eventually you gave up. If he wanted to be a stubborn bastard about it, let him be one.

You had been walking for maybe twenty minutes in silence when Junkrat became obviously and terribly bored. He demonstrated this first by humming, then singing a made up song to the tune of Row Your Boat.

“Hike, hike, hiking up, through the ravine! Me and my mate, we’re walking straight, fuck it’s freezing!” He turned his head back to look at you and chuckled. “Oh, good, y’ _are_ still there. Would’ve been real silly ta sing that if I was all by meself.”

“Where else would I be,” you asked frowning.

Shrugging, he said, “Dunno. Could’a gone back the other way, could’a tripped an’ fallen without my noticing…” Junkrat’s next step faltered slightly as some loose rocks slid beneath his peg leg. “Shit, see sweets?”

“I’m pretty sure you had enough scrap to make yourself a proper foot.”

“But that ain’t _cool_. If I’m gonna become one of those route markers for folks what’re lost in this snowy hell, I at least wanna get a nickname what’s fucking ripper. Nothing like ‘Green Boots.’ Or were they blue? God, I hope no one ever gives me the nickname Blue. I’d haunt their asses ‘till Kingdom Come. And, 'sides, I'm blond. Ain’t even applicable.”

You suppressed an amused smile at his short diatribe. “That’s only on Mount Everest. We’d _both_ already be dead if we were stuck there. You’d be more likely to be called ‘Lime Coat’ anyway, I think.”

He made a disgusted noise. “No. I don’t want no one thinking I’m a pommie in death neither, even by accident. That’s just… well, no. I can think of worse post-mortem insults.”

“Such as?” You had a few ideas, but all of them required knowing more about him than just the colour of his shoes. Or shoe, as it were.

“Such as ‘Lookie here, folks, it’s Skippy,’ ” he exclaimed, jumping on one leg to brandish his prosthesis with a crow of laughter. “But I bet I’d be quite the sensation, once tale of where me frozen remains was found began ta surface elsewhere. ‘One-Legged Man Climbs World’s Tallest Mountain, Tragically Carks It Before Climbing Down. More at six!’ ”

He snickered at himself, and began making up nicknames for what your corpse would be called, playing off things ranging from hair colour to the way you’d laced your boots. ‘Underdressed’ was his favourite, apparently. You reminded him of the fact that he only had a jumper and scarf underneath the stolen coat, calling him a hypocrite.

“What, _me_ ,” he spluttered. “A hypo- no, mate, I’m not… I’ve never… Yeah, okay. So maybe I am just a _teensy_ little bit of a hypocrite. Sometimes. But what am I gonna do ‘bout it?”

“You could give me my coat back,” you suggested with a shrug he couldn’t see.

He whined. “Not yet, darl, I’m still cold.”

You rolled your eyes, and took the pains to point out, “You’re always going to be cold here. We’re in the Himalayas.”

“Don’t mean I can’t whinge about it. Oh, I know - we’ll trade at tea, howzat? In just, ah… one more hour?”

You considered this, looking jealously at the coat as you fought back another shiver. Your neck was sweating, causing the innermost layer of your scarf to become uncomfortably and worryingly damp. The coat would stop it from becoming a potential ice pack. But you _could_ stand to go a bit longer, whereas he would quickly become a ‘route marker,’ as he’d charmingly put it.

“Fine,” you said in a resigned voice.

You’d give him ten more minutes - perhaps even less than that. Your stomach was growling, after all.

Your eyes trailed over the tied off sleeve on the right and followed the trailing fabric towards his peg leg. Your curiosity wriggled in the back of your head and whispered to you. How had he lost them?

His peg leg slipped again, and as he cursed it a grenade rolled out of the bag on his back. You caught it before it hit the ground, staring at the painted on smiley face, and you decided you had an answer to your question.

He was just too clumsy for his own good.

That or he just blew himself up for the hell of it.

You weren’t entirely sure which seemed more in line with what you knew of him. You’d seen the footage of him using his concussion mines to jump between buildings many times before. You’d also seen footage of him accidentally drop live bombs next to him while talking animatedly to Roadhog.

The question was; was he a thrill-seeker doing it on purpose, or just an idiot?

You tapped him on the shoulder, intent on handing the grenade back and continuing on your way. In hindsight, you should have quietly disposed of it.

Junkrat stiffened before he turned, one eyebrow raised and a curious expression on his face. “Ya need something, love?” His eyes dropped to the grenade and widened a fraction before he smiled blissfully at you. “For me? Oh, darl’, ya shouldn’t have.”

Junkrat’s fingers, when he drew them out of the coat pocket, were visibly tinged blue beneath the dirt. They moved with markedly less grace than before, but still were nimble enough to check the grenade over quickly for any potential damage. Thumbing the pin, he looked up at you and smiled wide enough to put seemingly every tooth he had on display.

You’d thought he would put the grenade in his pouch. You really should have known better.

He pulled the tab with his teeth and threw it down the ravine behind you. Grabbing your hand, he smiled and said, “C’mon, let’s get outta range an’ see what happens next!”

You ran with him, your heart suddenly fluttering in your chest. Coughing at the pressure, you asked, “Why did you do that?”

“Bored,” he replied with a shrug as he pushed you behind a rocky protrusion on the side of a wider section of the chasm.

Junkrat stood in the open to watch his chaos unfold.

The explosion was loud and bright. There was a split second of the ravine folding in on itself slightly. Then the sides opened opened as snow and stone went flying into the air, leaving trails of white dust in the sky. From where you stood, peeking over the rocks, it was really was almost beautiful.

Junkrat’s laughter was almost as loud as the explosion as he twisted his hand in his hair with excitement, the incomplete arm coming up to mirror it’s twin as best it could. He turned to look at you just once, just for a few seconds, and you were startled by intensity of the manic glee on his face.

Junkrat’s laughter slowly died as he bounced in place. “Ho-oo-hoo, blimey! That was beautiful! Haha… oh, I really needed something just like that ta get me blood pumping!” He pumped his fist once in the air. Then he sighed and bit his thumb lightly, still watching the snow slowly resettle over blast site. Suddenly his eyes shot to you, and he said with a grin, “Thanks for the prezzy, doll!”

You shuddered in fear against the rock wall, glancing up at the snow along the rim of the ridge. “I didn’t think you’d _detonate_ it, you _moron_.”

Junkrat blinked at you and cocked his head to the side in confusion. “Why,” he asked finally. “Was I s’posed ta wait ‘till we had a reason?”

You pushed away from the side of the ravine to shove him for being stupid. “You could have collapsed the ravine on top of us!”

Junkrat held up his hand in a placating gesture. “Hey, now, no reason ta fret! See, the ravine’s nice and sturdy here!”

To demonstrate this, he turned and kicked the side of the ravine with his peg leg. You gaped as the snow above you started to shift.

“Ha! See? Nothing’s happen- oh, crap.”

And then you both were covered in snow. 

_Wonderful_.

You fought your way out, lucky enough to not be knocked upside down, coughing as you inhaled the icy powder. Junkrat’s head popped up a few seconds later as he rested on his elbows, arms wobbling under the weight of the snow and the parachute bag. He looked around, wide eyes darting uneasily over the fallen snow. He smiled when he saw you watching him with crossed arms.

“Well, now, see? That wasn’t so bad. Almost fun really,” he said, laughing as he pulled himself up.

It was official. He was an idiot. An idiot who would get you killed.

“Aw, fuck, it’s gotten down me strides!”

Face, meet palm.

You two are going to be just the _best_ of friends with this man about.

Muttering to yourself angrily, you slowly climbed atop of the snow and fought your way to the clear side of the ravine. “Why did you d-do that,” you spat at Junkrat as he joined you a few moments later.

He blinked at you, pursing his lips in thought. “Well, ya see, the idea was ta quiet your worries ‘bout me demo job wrecking things. But, I’ll admit. Didn’t exactly work out as I’d hoped.”

“You think,” you asked, pulling off your scarf to release the snow that had gotten trapped in the loops. “Really, I can’t s-say I’m all that surprised you didn’t t-take the time to _think_.”

Junkrat’s lip curled. “Oi, I _did_ take time ta think. I mean, wasn’t long, but I _did_. Just miscalculated, is all.”

“You m-must do that a _lot_ ,” you snarled as you stalked away, wobbling slightly on the uneven terrain. “I’m amazed you haven’t completely b-blown yourself up yet.”

Well, _that_ was an instant bolt of guilt. You shoved it away sharply. He deserved this.

He shot you an indignant look and went to cross his lopsided arms. Unsurprisingly, he failed at that and, playing off the jolting movement as having been on purpose, Junkrat instead rested his fist on his hip. “Oi, rack off! That was an accident! ‘Sides, wasn’t even an explosion this time! Just ‘cause I made a little mistake don’t mean…”

“Shut up,” you replied in a hiss. “I d-don’t care about your excuses.”

Junkrat shoved his hand back in the coat pocket and looked away from you angrily. “Fine. Have it your way and _be_ a fair cow about it. Now, as absolutely bloody delightful as our chin wags are, why don’t we get a move on, yeah? My leg’s starting to chafe.”

“Give me back the coat first,” you demanded. “I’m not moving on without it.”

Junkrat scoffed. “Fine. But I’ll warn you, I’ll be wanting it back ‘fore long.” His hand faltered as he went to unzip it with painfully obvious reluctance.

“Oh, okay, you know what, fine,” you muttered after he took half a minute to even fully grasp the zipper. Your hands moved to the outermost sweater you had and pulled up.

Junkrat seemed stuck between gaping and laughing. “Whatcha doin- I mean, I _do_ consider stripping ta be asking nicely, but…”

Whatever he had been going to say broke off when you chucked the sweater in his face and quickly pulled the zipper of the coat down.

“Ooh-hoo, look who’s getting handsy now,” Junkrat exclaimed, throwing the sweater over the bag on his back with a leering smile on his face. “You always like this after a barney? ‘Cause, if so, darl’, I’ll really give ya what for next time.”

“No,” you retorted, hoping against hope that your face was red solely from the cold. “I am _not_ always like this after a… a _what_?”

“A tiff,” Junkrat helpfully supplied as you shoved the parachute bag off his shoulders, his hand moving to your waist.

“No, I’m not always like this after a fight.”

“Ha! That means I’m special!”

“Oh, you’re special, all right.”

The bag landed with a puff in the snow. One of the sweater’s sleeves was caught beneath it, and you could only pray that it was the right sleeve so that he wouldn’t complain.

You ignored his hand in favour of untying the knot in the arm of the coat. Then what felt like blades of ice moved across your hip, causing you to gasp. So much for ignoring _that_ appendage.

“Holy fuck, dude,” you said as you worked the knot free. “Your fingers are like icicles.”

“And yer hip is like fire,” he said, hissing in mild pain under his breath as his frigid hand moved more fully onto your flank and exposed your flesh to the biting air. “Think I could have the glove back? I mean, fair trade for the coat, I’d say.”

“If it keeps you from sliding your cold ass hand under my shirts again, yes.”

“No promises on that, doll.”

You rolled your eyes as you pulled the coat off his shoulders. “Please don’t call me doll.”

“Sure thing, darl.”

You pulled on the coat quickly, glad to finally enter a cocoon of warmth again. The smell of smoke had permeated it and reminded you of camp fires. You had to resist burying your nose into it to chase the nostalgic scent. Especially with the knowledge that it was because it smelled like _him_ and you didn’t want to have to deal with him reading too much into it.

You zipped up the coat with a speed you hadn’t realised yourself capable of, cutting off the tongues of cold air that were working through your diminished layers. Junkrat had moved the bag to the side and was trying to work your sweater over his shoulders, but it was caught on his stump arm. Biting your lip, you went to help him shimmy into it. Would it even fit him? It was much more closely fitted to you than your coat, the latter being purposefully large to hold in more warm air.

Both of you looked blankly at the sweater and where it ended; a few inches above the belt holding his pouch and canteen. The lavender woollen garment was stretched tight across his shoulders and the left sleeve ended at least a three fingers width away from his wrist. The snow crusted right sleeve fluttered freely like the world’s strangest wind chime. 

It painted even more ridiculous a picture than him wearing your coat had, especially when contrasted with his yellow jumper and green snow pants.

“Well,” Junkrat said dryly. “This fits nicely.”

Raising a brow, you couldn’t suppress the snicker that bubbled from your throat. Junkrat’s eyes shot to you in surprise and he smiled, exclaiming, “You _do_ have a sense of humour!”

“That wasn’t laughter, dude,” you replied, amusement still tinging your voice.

He tutted you and reached out to pat you playfully on the head. “Trust me, darl’, I know laughter. Ya think I’m funny, admit it.”

You narrowed your eyes up at him. No way were you going to admit that he was funny. It was just a one time thing, anyway. His hand slid from the top of your head to your temple, the pad of his thumb rubbing softly over the tip of your ear as he grinned down at you. Your eyes widened when his gaze dropped to your lips. Too intimate. Far, _far_ too intimate.

You stepped back with a nervous smile.

Junkrat laughed, shrugging and shaking his head with an amused smile. Then he held his hand up expectantly, work glove slightly encrusted with frost. “I’ll have that glove now, if ya don’t mind. I’d prefer not losing any more limbs if I can help it.”

You moved back another step as you handed him your glove, glancing at the freely moving sleeve. “I should tie that off,” you said as you moved to pick up the parachute bag. “Keep it from being a heat sink.” It would keep him from complaining, you rationalised.

“Nah, mate, I’ve got it,” Junkrat said. Pulling your glove back over his with his teeth, he quickly knotted the fabric with a deft twist of the hand.

You shrugged, shouldering the bag. Dear _Lord_ was it heavy. “Alright. Well, if we’re all set to go…”

“Yep,” Junkrat replied, taking a confident stance and pointing towards the open ravine. “We shall boldly continue on our way! Our heading? North by northwest!”

You blinked at him. The ravine was just going north, judging by where the sun was and where the it had been in relation to the ravine your memory, adjusting for any turns it had taken. And where had he even gotten that heading?

“North by northwest isn’t a real heading,” you said finally.

“What.” Junkrat’s confident stance was instantly destroyed in favour of an askance one. “‘Cour… ‘Course it is! Why else would they name a movie after it?”

Your jaw dropped. “Did you seriously choose our heading based on a movie title?”

“Wha, no! I got based off of… of other things!”

You crossed your arms with a hum, suspicious. “Right. Such as?”

“Such as… Such as the fact we flew south earlier and I remember there being, uh, stuff an’ things that direction.” He waved his hand vaguely at the ravine over your shoulder.

You pinched the bridge of your nose again. “ _Why me_ ,” you thought despairingly.

Turning to face him fully, you looked at him blandly. He didn’t meet your eyes.

“There’s ‘stuff and things’ everywhere, Junkrat. Do you mean that you saw _buildings_ or something _helpful_ to the north?”

“Uh… yes? No, _yes_.” He nodded fervently. “I _definitely_ saw buildings ta the north. Well, at least one building. Definitely saw at least one building ta the north. By northwest.”

You tilted your head at him, examining him with narrowed eyes. His answering smile was mostly teeth.

“Again, that’s not a real heading.”

He let out a groan, shoulders dropping as he shot a glare up at the sky before looking at you with a vaguely annoyed expression. “Whaddya mean it’s not a real heading.”

“I _mean_ it doesn’t exist. You can’t have north by northwest.”

“Well why’s the movie called that then,” he asked, allowing his arm to rest limply by his side.

You raised your hands in bewilderment. “How do you even know about that movie?”

He shrugged. “Spent too much time with a leckie what liked it.” With what could be classified as a winning smile, he asked, “Have you seen it?”

“Wha..?” Okay… One day you were _really_ going to have to find a handy Australian-to-English dictionary. If only to tell him off in his apparent native tongue. Blinking, you answered his question with, “Well, yeah, but it’s still not a real heading.”

Screwing his face up, he said, “Well why’d they even name it that if it weren’t a real heading?”

“It’s named after a quote from Hamlet.”

His brow furrowed. “What have pigs got ta do with anything?”

You weren’t sure whether you wanted to pity him for his lack of knowledge or grimace at it. “Hamlet is a play. By Shakespeare. You… _do_ know Shakespeare, right?” He had to, unless he hadn’t asked any questions about the ‘job’ that led him to you.

“I know _of_ Shakespeare,” he replied, expression guarded. “School of the Air rather fails if there aren’t any working towers and the pollies and suits are too cowardly ta put much effort ta repairing ‘em.”

“What’s the School of the Air?”

“It _was_ how us bushies was taught ‘fore the tin heads blew the Omnium.”

Pity it is then. Maybe you would teach him some of the plays. It’d at least give you something to pass the time with.

“Alright, well, the point is that you can’t have north by northwest,” you said, getting back to the original topic. “It’s not how compasses work.”

“Well why not? Ya got north, ya got northwest… Surely you should be able ta have north by northwest.”

You shook your head, remembering a similar conversation when you were learning orienteering. “No, see,” you said, turning and holding your arms out before you. “If this is north and this is northwest, in between you have north-northwest.”

Junkrat looked at you with a flat expression, blinking rapidly in disbelief. “… Is there a difference?”

“It’s a terminology thing,” you replied, raising your arms to indicate the directions. “The word ‘by’ is always followed by a cardinal point because of the fact that when you box the compass and go in a clockwise direction from true north…”

He had brought up his hand to cup his jaw as he surveyed your explanation of boxing the compass, one eyebrow raised high and mouth pursed. Pulling it away, he interrupted you with, “So, and I’m just going out on a limb here, but if it’s just a terminology thing then there’s not… _actually_ a problem with saying north by northwest, is there.”

“Well, not technically, no.”

Junkrat’s expression clearly said ‘what the absolute fuck.’ That was the only way to describe it. You flushed with embarrassment.

“I was taught that the proper way to refer to it was north-northwest.”

Junkrat snorted at your statement. After a brief pause, he laughed abruptly and fell back into a confident stance. “Ah, well, good thing it’s not something ta fuss over! Was almost worried there for a second. Would’ve had ta ca…-aall for a vote! On which direction we should go. _Heh_.”

You frowned at him as he rubbed the back of his head. He was hiding something. “There are only two of us. Voting doesn’t work that way.”

“In that case, I’m gonna make a proclamation and say we follow the ravine,” he said, turning you forward and giving you a light push.

“Wait, why are you the boss suddenly,” you demanded. Despite your protestations, you moved on in the direction he’d chosen. You were too tired to try and go back over the exploded section anyway.

“‘Cause I said so, that’s why!”

“That’s a terrible reason.”

“Righto then, ‘cause you have the coat and I don’t.”

“If that’s what decides it,” you said with frustrated sigh, “we wouldn’t be heading in this direction at all. _I_ chose the other way earlier.”

Junkrat laughed. “Yeah, but then we’d be walking blindly into the unknown.”

You turned your head to look at him curiously. “Aren’t we we effectively doing the same now?”

“Oh, nah, see I’ve got a g-, uh… a, a _great_ nose for this kinda stuff. Yeah, that’s it. Got a great nose for this kinda stuff.”

The man was definitely hiding something.

“You’re sure you saw a building out this way,” you said as you hefted yourself atop a large rock in the path.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure,” he replied quickly as he scrambled up behind you. “It had a, uh, black roof.”

You hummed as you hopped off the rock on the other side and grimaced in pain. The bag was digging deeply into your shoulders and making you far more top heavy than you were used to. How on Earth had he managed to carry it for so long?

Gritting your teeth against the pain, you said, “How could you tell it was a building and not a boulder or something?”

“Uh, the, ah… shape of the roof. Far too square and unnatural in the way it cut through the snow.”

You hummed. “And how could you tell the color of the roof if it was cutting through the snow.”

He was silent for a moment, and then laughed and said, “‘Cause the heat from the interior kept the roof hot. See? Not sus at all.”

Your mouth flattened. “Could you, I don’t know, try not to use so much slang?”

“No promises, mate! It’s just how I talk, is all.” He giggled again. Gasping, he suddenly said, “Oh, wait! I should teach it to ya! That way you’d not be outta the loop when we get home!”

“You seem to think I’ll just waltz off to Australia with you willingly,” you drawled, adjusting the bag with shaky arms.

“Well maybe after our Waltzing Matilda here in Satan’s Never Land you’ll change your tune, dove.” Junkrat’s laugh echoed across the ravine. “Go on, ask me what I’ve just said.”

“Hm… No.”

His answering cry of dismay brought a smile to your face. “But, darl! Howzit that you’re ever gonna learn it if ya don’t ask?”

You hummed again, ignoring Junkrat’s attempts to wheedle you into accepting his offer to teach you Australian slang (having already decided to eventually take him up on the offer, thus fulfilling your plans of telling him off, but finding it fun to leave him hanging).

Instead, you tried to guess what his attempts at subterfuge were hiding. Perhaps the whole ‘wears heart on his metaphorical sleeve’ thing could be used against him to trick him into forgetting what he was saying long enough to get the full truth. You briefly entertained the thought of seducing it out of him - it’d be easy with how starved for affection he was turning out to be.

The thought was discarded quickly when you remembered that in your last encounter with him (really all your previous encounters with him) you both had only avoided Seriously Dumb Things that Totally Didn’t Plague Your Imagination thanks to somebody or something else distracting one of you. Still, if it came to it, the idea may yet hold merit.

You’d just have to avoid forgetting yourself in your act.

Idly you recalled how he kissed and found yourself wondering where on earth he’d learnt _how_ to kiss. Surely no one in their right mind would ever consider him for such things (and you, being sane yourself, would obviously never do so and, moreover, had definitely not _done_ so).

You shifted the pack again, wondering why you cared, when suddenly the load was lifted. Craning your neck back, you saw Junkrat had grabbed hold of it from beneath and was holding it up slightly.

“Issit too heavy for ya,” he asked. “‘Cause I’ll take it back if you can’t carry it.”

Your temper flared slightly. Sure it was heavy, but it wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle. “No, it’s fine, I got it.”

“Sure ya do, darl. An’ I’ve got an aunt what’s an emu.”

You snorted. “Actually, I _would_ believe that.”

“Oi, watch it,” he jokingly threatened. And then the bag was back to digging into your shoulders.

After a few more feet, he asked again.

“I said I got it,” you shot back.

He demurred, and after a few seconds cackled with glee. “Actually, yanno, this is great! I can just eat my sweets whenever I want now!”

You groaned when you felt the bag shift down - clearly the junker was wasting no time in making good on his realisation.

“Want some Pop Rocks, mate,” he offered, crinkling a bag in your ear.

You swatted the pouch away, causing him to giggle again. Your heart fluttered angrily in your chest, and even your lips tingled in rage. 

Usually you weren’t this angry. Clearly it was all thanks to the man walking behind you.

Who was currently chortling loudly as he enjoyed his candy with a gusto. And apparently with an open mouth, as you could hear the popping of the candy in between his laughs.

Seeming to sense that you weren’t in the mood for conversation, Junkrat took to humming again once he’d finished at least two packets of the candy. This time it sounded like he was humming a medley of classical music, but you didn’t recognise anything beyond the refrain from that song that was used in V for Vendetta.

The ravine slowly widened and opened out onto another field as the ground beneath your feet became a mix of ice and loose slate. Your eyes danced over the environs, taking in solely the fact that it was as snowy as the field from which you had come.

But why was everything so much fuzzier than usual?

Taking another step forward, a piece of slate shifted and suddenly you were falling backwards.

Into Junkrat, who let out a bark of surprise as he caught the bag. Your arms slipped out of the loops, and you landed with a small thump on the cold ground. The bag landed next to your head as Junkrat knelt down to examine you.

He looked at you with an arched brow and mouth pursed in thought. After a few seconds, he poked you on the forehead.

“Ya don’t look well, mate. Which is right strange, ‘cause, according ta yer file at least, usually you’re full feather.”

You laughed hysterically at your circumstances, startling him. “I have no idea what you just said.”

“Strewth, and now you’re even laughing at me. Something’s definitely off.”

Your stomach gurgled a bit.

“Oh,” you said suddenly as you remembered something important from your survival training. “I have low blood sugar.”

Junkrat’s expression screwed up in confusion and worry. At least you thought it was worry. You kinda _hoped_ it was worry. Oh, wait, he was talking. 

“Yer file didn’t say anything ‘bout diabetes.”

You shook your head, moving your hands to animate your explanation. “No, I don’t have diabetes, but! You see, when you’re in a cold weather situation, such as we are now, your body uses extra energy to keep the body warm. And in the last, uh, twelve-ish hours or so I’ve only had that one protein bar to eat. So I’ve been using _tons_ more energy than I’ve been consuming. The low blood sugar would also explain why I was so angry earlier, and so, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for what I said.”

There. Now your guilt at saying he’d blown himself up was assuaged.

“… Y’aren’t gonna die on me, are ya,” Junkrat asked, his sharp eyes the only point of emotion in an otherwise blank face.

“What? Oh, no. I just need something with sugar in my system.”

Junkrat’s expression melted into one of relief. “Oh, good! Righto, then, open wide!”

You opened your mouth to ask why, when suddenly he was shoving his open canteen to your lips and pouring its contents down your throat. You spluttered, equally due to the beverage being unexpected as to its lukewarm temperature. This was not improved when tiny and chewy balls of _something_ followed the liquid.

Reaching up, you pushed the canteen aside sharply, leaving Junkrat to squeak as he fumbled to keep from spilling the concoction on the ground.

“What the hell is that,” you coughed.

“Boba tea,” Junkrat exclaimed, sounding almost scandalised. “It’s half sweet! Liquids are absorbed faster than solids, so I though ‘oh, hang on, I’ve got something that’d hel-’ ”

Blinking up at him, coughing and half-blinded by the sun, you could only find the presence of mind to ask, “Why is it in your canteen?”

“Well what else would I have? Methanol?” He moved to sit cross legged, pulling your head and shoulders into his lap. “Even I get thirsty sometimes, darl,” he said as he took a swig himself.

The peg leg dug into your shoulder blade uncomfortably and left cold numbness in its wake. You shifted uncomfortably until he adjusted his stance to pull your back against his chest, legs spread around you and your head pillowed just above his heart. He was warm, though you could feel his shivers as clearly as you could hear his heart beat. Junrat’s hand was busy with pulling the bag closer to you and fishing out some snacks, but his eyes were fixed on you.

Then his hand came up to trace along your jaw, snacks forgotten in the snow. Junkrat said your name, and when you looked up at him his expression was pensive and serious. “We may very well die out here, ya know.”

Your breath shuddered in your rib cage. The idea had been in the back of your head, but you hadn’t wanted to admit it. “I know,” you replied at length, looking down.

Junkrat’s hand caressed your cheek lightly before falling to your shoulder. Your hand came up to cover it after a few seconds.

After all, if you were going to die, why deny yourself some human contact?

The two of you lapsed into silence for a while. Then Junkrat squared his shoulders and snickered. “Right, screw that! As if I’m gonna let some bastard what's called Jack Frost do me in! The fuck kinda name izzat, anyway? C’mon, mate, let’s get some food in our bellies and then we’ll keep on trucking ‘long our way!”

“Do we even know our way,” you questioned, still feeling melancholy over the very real prospect of death.

“‘Course we do! It’s, uh… hang on, if it was north by northwest when we got up this morning, what would it be now?”

You held up a hand to trace the sun’s trajectory, squinting into the light. “I’d hazard a guess and say west at this point.”

“West it is then! Right after lunch.” Junkrat tore open a packet of trail mix with his teeth and handed it to you.

The wind howled over the field, causing him to shiver deeply.

“Oh, and, ah, ‘fore we set out, any chance I could get the coat back?”


	8. Chapter Four: Day One, Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA Where We Discover What The Waypoint Is and Our Heroine Is Crap At Languages/Slang

You were tired of walking. 

Tired of the snow crunching under your feet. 

Tired of seeing your breath come out like a quickly dissipating cloud.

Tired of being blinded by the glare of the sun on the rimes of frost that covered everything you saw.

Tired of Junkrat commandeering your glove.

Tired of having to walk with your hands crammed in your armpits.

Tired of the increasingly innumerable times that you had paused to trade the coat back and forth.

Tired of the dawning surety that at least one of you would likely freeze to death.

Tired of ducking behind boulders to relieve yourself and the discomfort of using frigid and frosted leaves and mountain grasses.

Tired of Junkrat always stopping to squint at the mountains after those ‘breaks’ and readjusting your trajectory.

Tired of wondering what the _hell_ he was trying to hide.

How long had it been since lunch? Two hours? Three?

How long had you been walking for now in total?

You weren’t sure.

What you were sure of is that the novelty and beauty of the Himalayas was quickly wearing off.

The same could be said of the novelty of snow for Junkrat. If anything, it wore off for him in such a timely manner you weren’t sure whether he’d _ever_ enjoyed the snow.

Even with the coat on his back and the parachute bag allowing for an extra layer beyond it, he found reason to complain about the cold.

It would have been forgivable, if he didn’t turn every conversation back to it.

Your attempts to teach him about Shakespeare had lasted as long as listing the Bard’s titles - once you’d mentioned _A Winter’s Tale_ he’d broken off into a huffy tangent that lasted at least half an hour on how a ‘real’ winter was sunny and warm and with fewer flies (or, rather, slightly fewer) and less eggs and young animals to pilfer from nests and an apparent increase in having to shake ‘creepy crawlies’ out of blankets and, and, and… Which had led to a tangent on him asking where all the bugs were, and then as to why it was winter now.

You had honestly never expected talking about Shakespeare to lead to attempting to explain why there was an equator and how the seasons worked to a man of… how old was he, even?

When you’d asked, he smirked. “Depends on how ya figure it,” he said with a wink.

“What does that mean,” you replied, racking your tired brain for hints.

Then he started humming a song and giggling, and it all made sense. _Pirates_.

And, of fucking _course_ , now the song was stuck in your head.

“A paradox, a paradox, a most ingenious paradox! Ha haha ha hahaha ha this paradox,” you half sang, the laughing lines sounding more like sharp exhalations in your fatigue.

Junkrat stopped humming, even stopped walking for a moment and allowed your side-by-side progression to become staggered. When you turned to look at him with a vaguely concerned expression, he was staring at you with a twisted smile that didn’t reach his eyes and all but strangling the strap of the bag.

“Funny thing, mate,” he said in a voice that sounded like it came from far away. “See, I thought ya said ya didn’t know the musical well.”

“Oh.” Well, he was right. The question was, were you prepared to tell the truth?

No, you decided. After all, turnabout was fair play - he’d been lying about something all day.

“I think I said earlier that I didn’t know it well,” you said with a tired shrug. “I think I also said I can recognize certain songs.” You forced an approximation of a reassuring smile and attempted to change the topic slightly. “So, your uncle Zee sang it to you because you were born in leap year?” With a playful smile, you asked, “Does that mean you’re twenty-one?”

“I’m twenty- _five_. And I never had an uncle Zee,” he retorted, glaring at you for some reason as he started walking again. “Had an uncle Zay, and yeah, lucky guess.”

“You did just kinda give it away,” you muttered to yourself, wondering what his problem was _now_ (and quietly marvelling that this immature idiot was the same age as you). Louder, you said, “Isn’t that just how you pronounce the letter ‘zee’ in Australian?”

He laughed at that, any sign of anger suddenly disappearing under a cloud of amusement. “ _Haha_ , in _Australian_? _Hahaha_ … Nah, way I talk’s called ‘strine’ if ya wanna give it a name, darl’. And _fuck_ no. See, in Oz we talk proper, like the rest of the world. It’s you yanks what talk weird.” Junkrat put on a serious face and (in a slightly deeper voice and a poor imitation of an American accent) said, “ ‘Zee.’ _Haha_ , no, we say ‘zed’ for the letter.”

“Okay, so your uncle wasn’t named Zack or something,” you said, the question coming out more akin to a statement.

“Wasn’t named anything what starts with zed,” he said with a wry smile.

“Were you close to him,” you asked after a few moments of silence, curiosity getting the better of you.

Junkrat giggled and grinned, staring with wide eyes out at the blindingly white slope before you. “Yeah, I was.”

When he didn’t elaborate further, your damned curious nature made you push a little bit more. “What happened to him?”

“Seems I’ve misplaced him, doll. Us morons do that sometimes.” Junkrat broke abruptly into loud laughter that quieted just as quickly. “Now, as fond as I am of twenty questions, let’s ask turn ta something what _I’m_ curious ‘bout.” His smile when he turned it to you was vulpine. “Are ya always gonna come the raw prawn with me?”

“What,” you asked, balking at the terseness in his tone.

The vulpine smile grew deeper. “Are ya always gonna lie ta me?”

“I haven’t lied to you,” you lied, scratching your nose even as your brain screamed that doing so was a tell.

His smile was _definitely_ underlined with something dangerous. “Ya sure, doll? ‘Cause, see, I’ve been labouring under the impression that you wannabe hero types had something ‘gainst lying. But it seems ta me that, ‘cept for when we fight, ya can’t do anything that ain’t a _goddamn_ act. Then again, y’ _are_ part of Overwatch. Maybe it’s a prerequisite or some such shit.”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk,” you spat in return. “You’ve been lying about stuff all fucking day.”

Junkrat let out a bark of laughter. “So what? I’ve got my reasons, and they’re _good_ ones, unlike _yours_.”

“How do you know my reasons aren’t good, you fucking hypocrite?”

“ ‘Scuse me, but I prefer the term ‘larrikin,’ and ‘sides, the fuck kinda reasons do ya have to lie about knowing something, anyway,” he returned, chuckling darkly. “Ain’t that what you tall poppies love ta do more than anything? Brag ‘bout what ya know?”

You glared at him. Screw asking him what he’d meant. “Maybe it has something to do with the fact that, I don’t know, I don’t like you and don’t really _want_ to have little heart to hearts?”

Junkrat’s laughter was sharp now as he shot you a side-long dirty look. “And _why_ issit ya don’t like me, doll? I’ve been doing my best ta be a right fucking gentleman with you here, thinking ‘oh, maybe I _should_ listen to that yank’s advice,’ and I’m about fucking done with it. ‘Specially since it don’t seem ta be working _and_ I have plenty of reasons ta be anything but. Like your calling them coppers on us, for instance. _Repeatedly_.”

You looked at him disbelievingly and took a few steps to the side. “Look, you weird fuck,” you hissed. “You and Roadhog ruined my life - I saw calling the cops on y’all as a way of getting back.”

He looked hurt for an instant before grinning toothily. “Real wowser, you are,” he said sarcastically as he shadowed your movement. “Nice try though. As if _you_ could ruin my life. Nah, them tin head twats saw to that.”

“I thought it was the A.L.F. that ruined Australia,” you said, remembering your history classes about the Australian fallout of the Omnic Crisis twenty years ago.

He took a half step towards you threateningly, nearly spitting in anger. “Oi, what were we s’posed to do? Lie back, think of ‘straya, and let them tin heads fuck us over? My fam’d been living in the Never Never for over five generations, and then all you Overwatch cunts look the other way when we were forced from our homes because ‘oh, but the battle’s all the way on the other side of the _cunting_ earth, we don’t _need_ to worry ‘bout them True Blues! ‘Sides, where we gonna put all them _peaceful_ tin reffos?’ ”

Fuck if you were going to back down in the face of his anger though. “You could’ve lived with them, maybe?! There are plenty of places where people do tha-”

He stared at you for a few seconds before interrupting you with hollow laughter. “What, live with bots? Yeah, we’ll just lair it up with ‘em, have real ripper of a time with that.”

“I’m not saying you’d’ve had to go and fall in love with them,” you retorted hotly. “There’s enough space in the Outback that they could’ve had a city all to themselves, and no one would’ve had to worry about them.”

Junkrat blinked twice before his mouth opened to release a torrent of laughter and stopped walking, folding up on himself with his arm around his belly. You stopped a few feet away, watching him cautiously.

“Oh, fuck me, doll,” he said, more to the snow than to you. Suddenly his neck craned back and his golden eyes were staring at you like a hawk. “You’re one of ‘em what think robots is people, aren’t ya.”

You sniffed dismissively as you started again in the direction you’d been heading before. Moving kept you warm and it was your only option until you got your coat back once more. Maybe this time it’d smell more strongly of ash and your memories, and you could pretend you were with someone who wasn’t so aggravating. 

“So what if I am,” you called back. “As someone close to me put it recently, the only difference between them and us is that they have processors while we have neurotransmitters.”

The memory of Lena made you wince inwardly, and wonder where they were and if they were looking for you. You hoped they were looking for you. You’d be pissed if it turned out they weren’t.

“Neuro _what now_ ,” you heard Junkrat say as you walked away, almost consumed by the thought of your comrades. And then came the telltale sound of the one-legged man running to catch up with you. You rolled your eyes when he appeared to your right with a short laugh.

“You’re wrong though - them tin heads can be _hacked_ ,” he pointed out, another smile inching across his stupid face as if he’d already won the argument. “We can’t. Big difference, that. ‘Sides, just fucking ain’t natural, giving rights to a machine what can be programmed right off the line for complete motherfucking _evil_. And _not_ the fun kind, like thievery.”

You scowled. “So now theft is fun?”

“ _Hahaha_! Lookie here, lads, little miss Indiana Jane has returned! _Hahaha_ … Oh, theft’s always fun, mate! Never know who yer gonna run into next (or what, I s’pose). ‘Sides, it’s how I met a right pretty bird.” He chuckled and winked at you, adding, “Who knows, maybe one day I’ll be telling a buncha carpet grubs ‘bout the wonders thieving can net ya.”

Your eyebrows twitched in confusion and lingering ire. “ _What_ is a carpet grub? Some kind of creepy crawly to shake out of a blanket?”

He chuckled again, louder this time, and looked at you with a highly amused smirk. “Yanno what? Come ta ‘straya with me. We’ll find out all ‘bout carpet grubs together.”

What. “They aren’t one of those weird mythical creatures y’all have like the bunyip, is it?”

Junkrat gasped theatrically, even going so far as to hold his hand to his heart in mock offense. “I’ll have you know that bunyips are _real_. It’s how I lost me arm!”

When pressed on this (repeatedly, even), the junker was adamant about the fact that he’d been sleeping in the shade of a bush by a billabong (whatever that was) one summer when suddenly he had heard a loud yell and his arm was being drawn into the bush by something strong and sharp toothed. He had fought the thing (each time describing it in a different way), but in the end he’d had to sacrifice his arm to get away.

Eventually you stopped being sure that he was making it up. After all, Australia _was_ home to a lot of the world’s deadliest animals - who’s not to say that bunyips weren’t real? Besides, Junkrat wasn’t stammering like he had been earlier as he continuously wove the tale. Maybe he _was_ telling the truth.

“You’re _really_ selling the whole ‘come with me to Australia’ thing right now,” you said eventually, interrupting yet another (different) description of the bunyip.

Junkrat looked at you with a playful, if slightly surprised, smile. “Am I? Didn’t know talk of people losing limbs interested ya so much, darl. Maybe you and Roadhog have something in common after all.”

Your nose crinkled. “Ew, no. No, I meant with the bunyip. Not sure I want to move to a place with anything like that running wild.”

Junkrat laughed and threw his arm around your shoulders. “Worry not, my bird! I’ll protect ya from all the foul beasties what live in the bush. Them bunyips and drop bears won’t get ya with me ‘round.”

You almost snorted in amusement as you pushed his arm off. Undeterred, his hand fell to your waist and his fingers took up their increasingly usual habit of sneaking under the hem of your shirt. Shivering against them and shying away from the cold bite his fingers had only brought you closer to his body. As usual when this happened, Junkrat started humming.

Too tired to care at this point, you said, “I know for a fact that drop bears aren’t real, though, so maybe your ‘protection’ won’t be so necessary.”

“ ‘Course they’re real, babe! Real fucking cunts they are. Bane to all tourist offsiders. But they only go after those what ain’t got a little ‘strayan in ‘em. But don’t worry - I reckon that by the time we get you home that’d not be much of a problem.”

Your mind skipped like a broken record at that, something that was _not_ helped by Junkrat’s hand dragging across your rear and his fingers suddenly pinching you. Yelping in surprise and outrage, you leapt out of his one-armed embrace.

Junkrat broke into a loud series of giggles at your irate expression as you rubbed your butt unhappily.

Stalking off a few feet, you decided that you _really_ needed to stop ignoring his hands.

You continued on your way in stony silence for a while after that. Or at least, _you_ did. As if to spite your silence, Junkrat took to telling you stories about attacks by drop bears he’d heard of and other tales about bunyips, stressing that only he, a “true blue ozzie”, would be able to keep you safe from the terrible beasts that (according to him) awaited foreigners around every corner in Australia.

By the time that something that _wasn’t_ either snow, a rock, or the sky appeared on the horizon, the sun was already low in the sky. Which meant absolutely _fucking_ nothing for your time telling skills due to the season.

All it spelled to you was that shelter needed to be found, and _fast_.

How lucky for you that Junkrat stopped his second anecdote about something called a yara-ma-yha-who (a disgusting creature from his descriptions) to slap excitedly at your arm and exclaim that what lay before you was, in fact, the building he had ‘seen’.

Immediately you noticed several things that proved that he had lied. First off, there was a thick layer of snow on the roof, leaving the one story building at the crux of a cliff barely visible - really, all that gave away that something was there was the nearby propane tank and a row of snow mobiles parked outside. Secondly, where the roof _was_ visible it was a striking red.

Above the building there was a short flag pole, though there was no flag flying. Next to the pole was a lightly smoking chimney.

Something about the building was putting you on edge, and suddenly you remembered that Junkrat was with a group that had once almost been the _death_ of you. 

And you’d been joking with him at several points throughout the day, blindly following his directions. Trusting him even when his lies were obvious, thinking only of the respite from the wind and the cold that a building would mean.

“ _Idiot_ ,” your mind hissed to you on loop.

His hand suddenly gripping your shoulder and pushing forward towards the building broke you from your brooding.

“C’mon, darl,” he was saying. “Can’t wait ta be warm again.”

You dug your heels into the snow, elbowing him and twisting away from his (surprisingly strong) grip. 

Junkrat turned to you jerkily, looking at you with an annoyed expression. Your eyes fell to the coat he was bundled in, to the pack on his back, and you shivered, knowing that running away would be suicide.

“Is there a problem, mate,” Junkrat said, hand shoved nonchalantly in the pocket of the coat once more.

“Yes,” you answered, raising an arm to point at the building before you. “I want to know how you know about this place before I go in. No lies this time - there’s no way in hell you could’ve seen this from a plane.”

Junkrat grinned. “Sure thing, love,” he said, giggling. “Anything ta get inside where it’s warm.” He withdrew his hand from the pocket and pushed it into the side bag at his waist, feeling around inside it, all without moving his eyes from you. After a moment, he withdrew a small device.

A GPS. The bastard had had a GPS this entire time.

“You had a GPS all along and you didn’t think to find a way out of the mountains,” you asked disbelievingly.

Junkrat shrugged. “I figured we’d do better ta find a place that’ll more likely’n not have a radio. Call for rangers or something like that. Lucky for us that this place had a marker.”

“Why did you keep this a secret from me,” you hissed. “And when did you even _check_ that thing?”

He had the audacity to laugh at that. The echoes were almost as loud as they had been in the ravine. “Checked it whenever you weren’t looking. And, as to the secret keeping, well…” He trailed off with a shrug. “Guess I reckoned you’d not wanna come with me if ya believed I was taking ya to Talon.”

“So this isn’t some secret Talon base,” you demanded, eyes darting to the building again.

“D’ya really think Talon would have a hidey hole out beyond the black stump? Or snowy stump, I s’pose, is more ‘pplicable.”

You shot him a confused look, and he clarified in a condescending drawl. “Does Talon strike ya as a group ta have a base in the middle of fucking nowhere? Now, c’mon, darl’, I’m fucking freezing and wanna get inside. It’ll be warmer than out here, and there _may_ even be food in there.”

You considered this. Honestly, you _didn’t_ know if Talon was the kind of group to have a base in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. All Overwatch knew about Talon right now was that they had a lot of money and had put a hit out on at least two prominent Omnics. All _you_ knew was that one of its members had almost killed you, another _wanted_ to kill you, and a third wanted to either kidnap or fuck you. Probably both.

But as far as having tiny hidden bases in the middle of nowhere? No, that didn’t make sense to you. Besides, the valley you stood in now was too narrow for the heliplanes that Talon had yesterday to have landed nearby.

And damn if you weren’t cold and hungry.

Gritting your teeth and taking a leap of faith for an ass who didn’t deserve it, you nodded and walked to the building. Junkrat caught you on the way, pulling you against his side with his arm around your shoulders again.

“Soz ‘bout the little white lie, darl,” he said to you as you made your way to the door. “But, ya gotta admit, would’ya ever have come with me if I’d told ya the truth? Ay?” Junkrat grinned down at you and squeezed your shoulders. “One of us’d definitely have carked it by now, if we’d’ve been all ‘lone out here.”

Peering up at him, a stray thought flitted across your mind. “What about Roadhog? He’s alone.”

Junkrat laughed, though a shadow of doubt flitted over his eyes. “That old bastard? Yeah, no, love. He’s a chicken strangler - digger through and through. Or… least he was one when he was younger. _Haha_! I’d be more surprised if he _didn’t_ manage ta survive, even in this fucking frozen hell.”

He laughed suddenly, shaking his head and causing the coat hood to fall over his eyes. All you could see of his face was his nose and smile as he said, “C’mon, darl, we can talk ‘bout Roadhog later. Let’s just… get inside first, alright?”

Reaching up, you pushed the hood back from his face to reveal tired and distracted eyes. Still, he chuckled, muttered a thanks, and squeezed your shoulders again as you continued to look for the door. 

The door, when you found it on the other side of the building, had been kicked in. Outside it there was a man clad in a bullet-riddled black winter coat, surrounded by slightly muddy-red snow.

Junkrat froze at your side, arm clamping down on your shoulders, and you could barely hear him whisper “What the fuck?”

The wind whistling over the cliff was the only sound for a few moments.

Pushing away from Junkrat’s grasp, you stooped over the man to check for a pulse.

The flesh was hard and cold, and your brain couldn’t comprehend why for a few moments as you stared into the asiatic eyes that gazed up at nothing through a layer of ice.

Then Junkrat was pulling you away from the corpse as you started hyperventilating.

“Calm down,” he said, nose buried in your hair and lips against your ear as he said your name. “Calm down, love. It’s just a dead guy. Nothing ta worry over.” His hand slid to your chin and forced you to look up at the sky, away from the man lying in a frozen pool of blood.

“He’s dead,” you cried out. “He’s dead!”

Dead, dead, dead…

Junkrat shushed you as he all but dragged you away from the body and into the building. He kicked the door shut behind you with his peg leg, and placed you gently on the ground with your back to the wall. He knelt before you, legs slightly boxing you in as he grabbed you by the shoulder and shook you lightly.

“Hey, look at me,” he was saying, but your eyes wouldn’t focus. All you could see was the open mouthed shock frozen on a blue-black face, brown eyes staring up at nothing, at _you_ … Junkrat shook you again, bringing his bluish fingers up to tap you lightly on the cheek. 

Junkrat’s soft and cajoling voice saying “Nah, love, look at me,” was almost drowned out by the pounding of your heart as the image played over and over in your mind’s eye.

Gasping for air, your panicked gaze rolled around the hall, catching sight of a few more corpses beneath flickering lights in doorways beyond. Then Junkrat was pulling your chin around, forcing you to look at him as he called your name again.

“Ya need ta calm down,” he said, large palm cupping the side of your face and keeping you from turning your head down the hall once more. “Panicking won’t do ya no good, and ‘sides, nothing ya can do ‘bout ‘em now anyway.”

You looked up at him pitifully as you shivered, feeling your stomach roll with disgust at the errant memory of frozen dead flesh beneath your fingers. “How can you be so… so _blasé_ about this?”

“If that means yer wond’ring howzit I’m so calm, truth is ya get used to seeing ‘em after a while.” He chuckled. “I know it sounds a bit cliché, but it’s the truth. Is this your first time?”

Blinking through tears, you let out a nervous laugh. “What?”

“First time seeing someone what’s dead.”

Swallowing harshly and closing your eyes, you nodded even as you remembered seeing Niall the security guard’s corpse. At least _that_ time you hadn’t seen his face, or even really touched his body.

Junkrat hummed contemplatively, hand sliding to the back of your head as he pulled your head against his shoulder. Your arms came up reflexively as he hugged you, gripping him tightly in a return embrace.

“First time’s always hardest, from what I’ve heard. Gotta get used to it, though, love. ‘Specially if ya plan on staying in our line of work for long.”

“You mean if I come to Australia with you,” you muttered into his shoulder, slowly feeling the nervous tension drain out of your body.

Junkrat giggled and held you closer. “That too, love, that too.”

After a few minutes, your mind calmed. Junkrat’s hand was rubbing up and down your back in a comforting manner. When you slid your hands from his shoulders, his hand moved to yours, thumb massaging over the meat of your upper arm. Finally, with a sigh, he pulled back to look searchingly into your eyes.

His eyes were really a nice shade of hazel, you thought distractedly as he asked if you were alright. “I’m fine,” you replied. You weren’t sure you _felt_ fine, but you felt better than before, at any rate.

Junkrat searched your eyes for a bit longer before squeezing your shoulder. “Alright,” he said, standing again and pulling you up with him. “Let’s have a look ‘round, see what we can scav, and discover what we can ‘bout what the _fuck_ happened here.”

You couldn’t agree more, mentally tacking on a bullet point lovingly entitled Get the Hell Out of Dodge.

Moving through the open doors and ignoring the bullet holes everywhere, you and Junkrat quickly located the storage room. Or, rather, Junkrat found it, and when asked how he’d known where to look he’d just pointed at the signs, which were in Chinese and Sanskrit.

Could he _read_ them?

Junkrat cackled madly as he raided the room, taking several layers of clothing for himself and donning them immediately. He seemed most pleased with a pair of yellow mittens, and even more pleased when he discovered them to be liners for more robust gloves. Only once he had enough to satisfy himself did he relinquish your lavender sweater and coat back to you, this time for good. He left the room after that, grabbing a pair of binoculars as he went, satisfied with what he’d found.

You, meanwhile, had piled together snow survival gear in a large backpack. A small solar powered cookstove, a lightweight winter tent, sleeping bag, ice picks, rope, lantern, hand warmers… Poking around you even found a basic first aide kit and added it to your stash.

When you rejoined Junkrat in the hall, he was wrenching at the handle of a metal door marked with another sign in a manner that reminded you of the vault in Dublin. Just as then, he loudly declared it locked before turning to you with a sigh.

“If only I had more bombs,” he whined, leaning heavily against the door and sighing once more.

Your eyebrow twitched. “What do you call those things in your bag, then?”

“ ‘S just grenades,” Junkrat replied mournfully. “It ain’t the same, blasting a door with grenades.” He traced a finger over the Chinese lettering on the door. Suddenly he pushed away from the door, all chipper and sprightly again. “Ah, well, I s’pose I can try again later.”

And with that he was bouncing off down the all, skipping over the dead as if they weren’t there and disappearing into a room at the far end of the hall.

You, meanwhile, poked through the rest of the rooms, to discover a map room (one of which you took), a bunk room, and a bathroom. The water was cold when you turned the tap, and you looked positively horrendous in the mirror with traces of Junkrat’s soot all over your face and neck. You wasted little time in scrubbing the dirt off, despite the icy water. The final room you looked into was the boiler room. This last room was perhaps the hardest to take, but it explained the flickering and dimming lights and lack of hot water.

Whoever had shot up the place had also shot up the generator and boiler, judging by a blackened corner of the room and the two singed bodies that lay nearby. Now there was a smell that you’d hoped never to have in your nostrils again. Your eyes trailed over the room to find nothing else of importance. At least the walls and ceiling were metal here, you thought as you closed the door behind you. That way the place was safe from burning down.

Junkrat was right about the bodies, though. The were easier to look at after a while. There were ten in total, all wearing various layers of black clothing, and all riddled with bullet holes. You tried to avoid looking at the blood stains on the walls, and did your best to avoid the pools on the ground.

One body, however, left you choking back gags again when you realised that the bits of debris that had been crunching under your feet were, in fact, slivers of finger bone from a woman whose hand had been blasted off.

Your mind flashed briefly to an old image you’d seen on the internet - a dog in a burning restaurant. ‘ _This is fine._ ’

You laughed despite yourself.

“Didn’t take ya for one ta laugh at death, mate,” Junkrat called from a room to your left, laughing as well. A series of metallic clangs and wrenching led to you stepping over the woman and enter the startlingly white kitchen beyond. “ _Heh._ Guess we’ve finally got something in common then!”

As you entered, he looked up from his work to smile at you. He had found some wire whisks and was pulling them apart with a pair of pliers, beating them occasionally on the metal countertops as he worked them into a new shape. Next to him was a pair of small tongs, to which he periodically compared his new creation.

“What are you doing,” you asked as you watched curiously.

“Whatzit look like I’m doing?” Junkrat giggled. “I’m making meself a new arm.”

“I… wouldn’t have guessed that,” you replied as you looked at the mass of metal, earning another giggle from the sooty greaseball.

“Oh, it’s just a small doovalacky what’ll hold me over ‘till I’ve got time for some _real_ work. See, these lights’re flickering too often, and there’s no hot water, so that tells me that this place ain’t likely gonna be an option for much longer. Ah well, least the heat’s lingering ‘bout.” Junkrat smiled and shrugged as if he didn’t care about the state of things. “Anything ta report ‘bout the other rooms, love?”

Telling him of what you had found, you started to rummage through the cabinets for canned food. Behind you, Junkrat hummed a tune you didn’t recognise. At your description of the state of the generator and boiler, he chuckled and declared himself right in his earlier assumption.

Kneeling on the floor and reaching into a cupboard you’d discovered to be full of MREs, you asked, “So what do you propose we do now? With the GPS we could find a way off a lot more easily than I’d’ve hoped for.”

“Oh, what, this thing?” A small thud sounded on the counter behind you. “Yeah, could use it, I reckon. By the by. Don’t s’pose you’ve found a charger or something like that?”

You paused and sat back on your heels, turning to look at him. He was leaning over the kitchen island directly behind you and facing your direction. Junkrat raised his eyebrows in question when he realised you’d turned around but didn’t pause in his work. Next to him was the GPS. Your eyes honed in on it like an eagle.

“Are the batteries low,” you asked, already dreading the answer.

Junkrat laughed, focusing on his work again. “Yup! Bloody useless little shits, they are.” Smirking, he rolled his eyes and sucked his teeth at the electronic device. “But, hey! Least we’ve got _you_ ‘round, darl, ‘long with all your compass reading skills. And you’ve even got a _map_. So I’m none too fussed ‘bout the GPS, ta be honest.”

Groaning, you went back to the cupboard. Behind you, you heard Junkrat echo the sound. Looking sharply over your shoulder, you realised that his eyes were affixed to your prostrate form as he leant more heavily into the counter.

Glaring, you snapped, “Take a picture, why don’t you? It’ll last longer.”

Junkrat laughed loudly at that. “Izzat a request?”

“Fuck you.”

“Ooh, is _that_ an request? _Haha_ …” Dragging his eyes away from you, he twisted a final wire into place and tested his new arm.

It was a simple thing, strapped around his elbow in such a way that bending the joint would close the tongs he’d chosen for a ‘hand.’ He hummed at it, smiling.

“Yanno, I think this is the best piece of shit I’ve ever banged together in twenty minutes. ‘Specially while thinking ‘bout banging… other stuff.” You glared at him again when his eyes darted to you once more. He giggled breathily, eyes dragging across your form again as his tongue peeked through his teeth to wet his lips.

Suddenly his eyes widened as he gasped and snapped his fingers. “Oh, wait! The door!” And he was out of the kitchen like a bolt of lightning, leaving the pliers and various bits of scrap metal behind.

Grumbling to yourself, you pulled out several stacks of MREs and put them in your bag. Looking over, you saw the parachute bag. Rolling your eyes, you pulled it over and stuffed a few canned soups into it before collecting the GPS from the counter and putting it in your bag. Nodding at the two packs, you racked your brain for anything you could be missing.

Oh, yeah - water. The boba tea had run out quickly, and melting snow was useful but having more than one canteen would be _so_ much more helpful.

Unfortunately your search for a canteen failed, so you did the next best thing and poured yourself a large glass of water.

You had just brought the beverage to your lips when you heard a small explosion in the hall and Junkrat’s triumphant laughter. Smoke rolled in through the door as the sound of him kicking open the door reached you. Rolling your eyes, you downed the liquid, set down the cup, and reentered the corridor.

Junkrat was already inside the room, and was still cackling at his small victory (which had left a sizeable hole in the wall, however he’d managed it). When you poked your head in, you saw that, save for one wall, the small room was full of radios. Junkrat had his back to the door and was fiddling with a radio that had a blinking red light.

“Is this their comm room,” you asked as you stepped inside. Junkrat yelped and turned around quickly. When he saw you his wild look softened considerably.

“Ya got that right,” he replied smoothly, shooting you a finger gun and a wink. “Comm’s busted though - too close ta the blast. Real fucking old fashioned, though. _Not_ what I’d have ‘spected. Look here, these dumb bastards got a fucking _Dell_. Ancient piece of shit. And they’ve even have a HAM radio still! Probably weren’t considered important enough ta give something better.”

You nodded and inspected the radios. You had no idea what any of the buttons did. Junkrat apparently did, however, as he turned back to the blinking radio after watching you for a moment. “By the by, darl, don’t s’pose ya know how ta work a HAM radio, yeah?”

You shook your head. “Nope. Wasn’t really something we focused on. I know some radio etiquette though. Stuff like ‘roger’ and ‘over and out,’ though that’s admittedly from movies more than anything else.”

Humming, Junkrat said, “Roadhog knows how ta work ‘em. Digger, like I said.”

“What’s a digger? Better not be some kind of grub, carpet or otherwise.”

Junkrat paused. Then he laughed, head falling to rest against the radio as he did so. “Oh, darl… Ya sure you don’t wanna learn ‘bout how I talk? Ya sure are asking lotsa questions ‘bout it, an’ your attempts at it are fucking hilarious.” He dissolved in a bout of snickering. “A digger’s a soldier. An’ I’d not call ‘em any kinda grub, if I were ya. ‘Specially not grubs of the carpet variety.” He snickered again as he resumed fiddling with the radio.

“Okay,” you said, walking over to him and leaning your hip on the desk next to him. Crossing your arms, you stared him down. Junkrat giggled, but remained so focused on the radio you weren’t sure if he was laughing at you.

Deciding you didn’t care about _why_ he was laughing now, you asked, “Tell me what a carpet grub is.” You had an idea, but wanted confirmation.

“A happy little Vegemite, darl,” he replied with a grin. 

Well, that confirmed _nothing_ beyond the fact he was a little shit.

Just then the radio sparked to life, playing back his words. Oh - it was a recording device. For security, it seems. … Why a _radio_?

“Fucking old fashioned dags,” Junkrat muttered. “Don’t even have a fucking camera.”

You found yourself in complete agreement with that, but wanted to give the dead people here more credit. “Maybe there’s a function somewhere to turn on a video feed,” you said.

“Oh, right! Lessee…” Tracing various wires and, _apparently_ , reading Chinese, Junkrat soon reached up to a switch on the bare wall and pulled.

And the wall was transformed into a wall of security camera feed. 

Well, now. _This_ you could handle.

“Move over,” you said, pushing your way to the radio and console. Junkrat slid away to lean nonchalantly next to the door, but not without skimming his left hand over your arm first.

You could feel his eyes on you as you worked, and did your best to ignore them. After all, they weren’t his _hand_ , so it wasn’t as bad. In comparison, it was almost pleasant.

After a few minutes, you turned a dial and the cameras blinked. Then started rewinding. The sound from the radio did the same. It was _weird_ hearing your voice and Junkrat’s laughter in high speed reverse.

You’d also apparently stared at the corpses a lot more than you remembered doing. So much for ‘getting used to it.’

The gun blasts and reversed screams started two days ago.

On the screen appeared a tall person clad in winter coats so thick and nondescript you couldn’t tell if it were a man or a woman. They were carrying a large gun with two hands as they stalked through the building.

After shooting a gun out of a woman’s hand, taking the hand with it, they pulled her up by the lapel to ask questions. You rewinded to just before it and let it play.

The person turned out to be a woman, and spoke some kind of Slavic language from what you could tell. At the door, Junkrat stiffened suddenly and watched the woman on screen warily. After a few minutes, the woman barked “You speak English?” When the other woman babbled in a foreign language, she visibly fumed and switched to… Chinese?

“Hang on, darl, let me have a look at that,” Junkrat said suddenly as the woman continued to growl at the other, walking quickly over to you and turning the dial almost before you had time to move your hand. Stubbornly, you refused to move further, and ended up all but boxed in to the corner for your troubles.

He rewound the tapes to when the woman had started talking, and muttered to himself. “She’s looking for… for someone.” His eyes flicked to you as he laughed lightly.

You looked at him curiously. “You speak Russian?”

“Don’t speak it, but I _can_ understand bits and pieces,” came the reply, though Junkrat’s focus was clearly still on the screen. “Picked it up on the road. It’s much simpler ta make sure people ain’t trying ta pull your leg if ya can understand ‘em.”

Skipping forward, he went to the Chinese portion of the conversation. Grimacing, he said, “Shit, mate, her pronunciation’s fucking shite.”

Crossing your arms, you looked at him with a mix of disbelief and awe. “You can’t be serious.”

“Serious ‘bout what, darl,” he asked as he rewound the Chinese conversation again.

“Do you expect me to believe you can understand Chinese?”

Junkrat laughed loudly at that, letting the tape play on for a moment. Then he said something _in_ Chinese.

What. The fuck.

“What did you say?”

Junkrat merely smiled, tapped his nose with a conspiratorial wink, and rewound the tape again.

“No, seriously, do you mean to tell me you can _speak_ Chinese?”

“Ya say that like you’re s’prised,” he chuckled. Before you could say anything else, his new ‘hand’ was pressing against your lips as he shushed you.

After a moment of watching, he started muttering. It was more to himself, still, and far quieter than before, but given your proximity it was impossible to miss.

“Looking for… Sombra… Traced… Okay, that is _not_ how that word is pronounced.”

Wait… Sombra…

Lady Shadow…?

Junkrat let out a squawk when you shouldered him aside to twist the dial forward, remembering something you’d seen a flicker of.

There - the woman exiting and climbing to the roof of the building. Taking down the ice encrusted flag, she shook it out before shoving it into a pocket and driving off on a snowmobile.

As the ice fell away from the black cloth, the symbol on it became clear.

 _Talon_.

The bastard had lied to you. Again.

And you had fallen for it like a sap. _Again_.

Pushing away from him, you shouted “You told me this wasn’t a Talon base!”

Junkrat turned to you calmly, expression revealing nothing. “Did I? I dunno. See, I’m _pretty_ sure I just asked you if ya thought Talon’d have a base out here.”

Walking backwards slowly you felt for the door behind you, not wanting to turn your back to Junkrat. He pushed away from the console and followed you, human hand stuck in his pocket and tapping his prothesis against his leg.

“Why _would_ Talon have a base out here,” you demanded, trying to avoid tripping over a corpse as you entered the hall without looking. 

Junkrat’s eyes flickered to your footing when you stumbled, and he smiled. The smile was positively lupine, and his eyes added to the wolfish look as they flickered between gold and bronze in the failing lights.

“Eh, dunno. Didn’t really think ta ask when they gave me the coordinates.”

“There wasn’t a marker, was there?”

Junkrat giggled, stepping with a lithe grace over the corpse and blocking the path to the exit. “Nothing gets past you, love. Now, question is, what ta do now that you’ve figured all this out?”

Your eyes flickered to the door behind him, remembering with despair the packs in the kitchen. Your gun and taser had been tucked away into one of the pockets already, due to you foolishly thinking that maybe, just _maybe_ , Junkrat wouldn’t try anything while his survival still depended in part on you.

Junkrat chuckled again at your silence before starting to slowly walk towards you. “Gotta say though, this ain’t going to plan at all.”

Your ears burned as your attention shot back to him. “Plan?”

“Yeah, see, Talon got this place set up a whiles back in order ta keep tabs on that tin head what you Overwatch fucks’ve squirrelled away. Idea was that anyone what fell from the planes during the attack would end up here, provided they survived long ‘nough ta do so. Roadhog’s idea more’n anyone else’s. From here, we’d be able ta call for a lift, though I s’pose that’s more _my_ fault that we can’t now, what with exploding the comm an’ all.”

As he spoke, Junkrat continued to move closer to you. You stumbled backwards, heels catching on someone’s arm. In your attempt to right yourself, you stepped on their stomach. It squelched beneath you, feeling more like a puddle of mud than a person, and a foul smelling liquid streamed from their mouth.

Your hand shot to the wall to keep from falling. Okay, calm down. Ignore the bodies, do a mental tally: what did you have on you?

Coat, sweaters, scarf, hat, goggles, gloves, pants, boots. You wouldn’t freeze if you were to run out now.

No food. No water. You’d die of either starvation or thirst.

No gun, no taser, defence spray… Spray.

Your hand shot to your pocket and whipped out the familiar canister.

Junkrat paused, eyes glancing over it as he laughed. “Back to our old tricks, I see.”

“What were you going to do with me,” you shot back, done playing around.

He smiled and shrugged, stepping over the body you’d tripped over without a second glance. “Weren’t expecting ya at first, ta be honest. But Talon’d think it fucking ace if I were to’ve brought you in. Would’ve been able ta convince ‘em ta let me have you, after they was done questioning ya. After all, the idea of getting you’s part of why I agreed ta work with ‘em.”

You scowled, brandishing the spray can and spraying him when he got too close (he seemed to be baiting you with it, always stepping just within the radius of the can before waiting for the smoke to clear). “That’s stupid. Why would they even agree to that? Besides, one of your Talon buddies shot me up and left me to die. I got a fucking nasty ass scar from _that_ little adventure.”

Junkrat’s predatory smile fell into a deep scowl. “They agreed ‘cause it was _you_ what led ‘em ta Roadhog and me in the first place. And I was fucking _pissed_ at that Zorro bastard for what he did to ya. Fucking cunt broke my rib when I told him where ta stick his gun next time.” He paused, rubbing his chest absently. “But I s’pose I should’ve just been more careful ‘bout how things went down in Chile, just stolen ya straight from the kitchen and not played ‘round first.”

You gaped at him as you stumbled back into the kitchen. “You think that was _playing_?”

Junkrat’s laughter came from the back of his throat. “Nah, yeah. Don’t you? Gets the blood pumping, gets ya up close an’ personal with the bird or bloke ya want… So long as it ain’t lethal and everyone enjoys themselves, it’s all fun an’ games, innit?”

The yawning gap between your idea of ‘fun and games’ and _his_ was never more evident. You felt like screaming, and your words came out shrill. “And you, you want _me_?”

Junkrat paused to look at you like you’d grown a second head. “Well, _yeah_ ,” he said, like it was obvious (which it was). “Thought you’d figured that out by now.”

“So, what, you were planning on just… _taking_ me against my will?”

His eyebrows shot up, almost touching his scraggly hairline as he blinked at you, before furrowing angrily. “Not against your will, nah. Well, ‘sides from the initial getting ya back ta base, at least. I, uh, _really_ don’t like playing that way. Realised it back in, ah _haha_ , Dublin. Yeah, Dublin.” Blinking, he laughed slowly. “Do… _you_ like playing that way, love? ‘Cause if ya do, I’ll, uh… play along, I s’pose.”

You let the defence spray fall a few inches. “Honestly,” you bit out, “I’m a bit surprised you _don’t_ like ‘playing’ that way. And how can you _even_ tell the difference?”

Junkrat looked like he’d sucked on a lemon. “Oi, just ‘cause I’m used ta taking what I want _when_ I want don’t mean I’m a fucking rapist piece of _shit_.” Raising his hands, he gestured angrily as he spoke, sounding more like he was explaining something to a frustrating child than to a fellow adult. “ ‘Cause ya see, darl, there’s a rather fucking _large_ difference ‘tween _people_ and _things_. See, _people_ gotta be at least somewhat willing ‘bout what ya do with ‘em ta be _fun_ , and ya can tell if they’re willing based on how they react ta playing.”

You scoffed. “And how were you planning on making sure I was _willing_ when you got be back to Talon?”

Junkrat had the gall to shrug. “Dunno. Was more just gonna see how pissy you were ‘bout it all first and work from there. Still, I do think you’d look nice all covered in glitter and shine, swanning ‘bout in the things I’ve collected for ya.” 

You balked, finally allowing the spray to drop down completely. “You were going to try and _buy_ your way into my pants?” 

“Well… yeah.” Junkrat looked at you with such a complete lack of guile that he was almost cute. “Ain’t that how it works?” 

You rolled your eyes. What the fuck had happened to the Outback that it'd leave someone with such twisted ideas as to what constituted romance? 

“You were better off sticking with the ‘gentleman’ routine,” you said as you breezed past him towards the packs. “Now seems to me that we’re going to need to change things a little bit before we can trust each other.” 

“I can do that! I can play the gentleman, if it gets ya ta trust me, darl,” Junkrat said, coming over to stand by the parachute bag. 

You held up the spray canister and shook it. Still half full, but the pressure inside would probably go off within three days. “That’s _wonderful_ ,” you said to your six foot six living shadow as you stowed the canister in your pack. “But until you prove it, I don’t trust you.” 

Junkrat groaned, then rubbed his chin, thinking hard. “So… what you’re saying is that if I can get ya to trust me, you’ll have a naughty with me?” 

“Wha-? No, that’s not it at all,” you ground out. Did the man think of nothing else in regards to you? “If anything, I _meant_ we need to trust each other while we’re in this godforsaken mountain range. No more lies, no more games, no more secrets.” 

“So we’re calling a truce, then,” Junkrat said, crossing his arms over his chest and tapping his new prosthesis against his bicep. 

“Call it what you want, but it only lasts until we get out of the Himalayas.” 

Junkrat gazed at you contemplatively for a moment. “Fine by me, love,” he said at last with a slow smile. 

Wow. That was quick. 

“You’re sure?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure. Now, first things first - no more secrets.” With that, his hand dove into his pouch and he pulled out a two-way radio. “I’m gonna call Roadhog.” 

“What,” you said, but Junkrat was already turning away and pressing the call button. 

So he’d had not only a GPS, but a _radio_ the entire goddamn time? And he’d kept it a secret from you with the inherently flawed plan of delivering you to a rival organisation and naively assuming they’d give you back _alive_ (not to mention the false idea that you’d _ever_ willingly go to bed with him after being kidnapped)? 

You pushed away memories of certain fantasies you’d had that were _vaguely_ similar to that exact line of thought. Fantasies were one thing, reality was another. 

“Oi, Roadhog, you there?” Junkrat said into the receiver as he hopped up to sit on the counter and kicked his foot idly against the cupboard door. 

Glancing at you, he patted the counter space next to him with his prosthesis. “Hafta make sure he responds, first. Sit tight, it may be a while.” He shrugged and grinned when you went to lean on the counters opposite him. “Have it your way, then.” 

Junkrat attempted the connection three more times before Roadhog’s gravelly voice finally responded ever so eloquently with “What.” 

“G’day cobber,” Junkrat replied, somehow managing to elongate ‘g’day’ while still keeping it one syllable. “Right, so just ta let you know, little miss Indiana Jane and I’ve made it to the waypoint. Place’s been all shot ta hell though by some crazy Russian lady, so there’s not much reason ta hang ‘round. ‘Specially with all the bodies everywhere. Kinda like home, if home were a sore on Lucifer’s ass. Oh, ah, ‘bout how far away’re you?” 

You, meanwhile, had pulled out the map and were comparing it to the GPS. Seeing this, Junkrat jumped off the counter and came to stand next to you, right arm lightly brushing you. 

“Don’t have a map,” Roadhog grumbled over the radio. 

“Ah, don’t worry, mate! We’ve got one! We’re, ah…” Junkrat turned to you to mutter, “Where are we exactly.” 

“We’re here,” you replied, pointing to the map and holding up the GPS for emphasis. “According to the map, we landed right about here,” another point on the map, “which means Roadhog landed somewhere around here.” Circling a section of the map with the tip of your finger, you looked up at Junkrat, smugly content with your map reading skills. 

The area Roadhog was in was cut off from the waypoint by a mountain divide, the fact only dawning upon you when Junkrat’s face fell slightly. 

“Right, okay, so… Thing is, Roadhog, we’re in a bit of a bind. Ya see, with the way that the mountains are, you’re not likely ta be able to reach us quick. Unless, you’re already halfway up a cliff face. … _Are_ ya already halfway up a cliff face?” When Roadhog’s answer came back negative, Junkrat continued blithely. “Oh, fuck. Ah well. Well, look mate, there’s a, uh, hey darl, what’s this,” he asked, nudging you with his elbow as he pointed at a red dot a little way off from the waypoint. 

Looking at the legend, you said, “It’s a temple of some sort.” 

“Thanks, love. ‘Kay, Roadhog, you heard her! There’s a temple about, eh, ten-twenty-thirty… _fifty_ kilometres ta the north what we’re gonna head towards tomorrow. I’ll do my best ta make sure you’ve got enough heat and light here ta make a pit stop bearable - there’s food and coats here, and I’m pretty fucking _positive_ you’ll be wanting some of that soon if ya don’t already.” He laughed, but his finger slipped off the call button halfway through. 

Pressing it again and shooting you an oddly fond look, he continued with “By the by, my bird here’s curious ‘bout what carpet grubs are. Seems ta think that an old digger like you might be one. D’ya wanna tell her what they are?” Junkrat bit his tongue as he laughed at your stunned expression. 

The radio was silent for a while, and when it finally clicked back on it was in the middle of an exasperated sigh. “Don’t you two have other things to worry about?” 

“Aw, c’mon mate, she’s curious!” 

You hit him lightly on the shoulder before reaching over to press the call button yourself. “I am not.” 

Junkrat giggled, holding down the button further as he said, “Yeah, you are! Nothing ta be ashamed of, darling! Carpet grubs’re serious business, after all!” 

Before you could respond to that, or deal with the rising embarrassed blush on your face, Roadhog’s tired voice came back with, “Children.” 

Junkrat giggled at you when you asked, “Is he calling us that, or was that a definition.” 

Shrugging, Junkrat answered you with, “ _Porque no los dos_?” And, predictably, started giggling again. 

“Ha ha ha, you’re hilarious,” you said sardonically as you pushed away from the counter and went to the cupboard. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to make myself some real food while you chat with your friend.” 

“Ooh, gotta go, Roadhog, my cook’s gonna fix me up some tucker.” 

“I said _myself_.” 

“Well no harm in sharing, darl!” 

Dinner passed without much comment, though Junkrat had quickly commandeered the stove and told you to sit pretty when you’d accidentally spilt the spaghetti sauce from the MRE everywhere. Somehow he managed to make the rations taste _good_ , and visibly puffed up with pride when you said as much. 

The compliment wasn’t worth the promises to teach you how to make ‘crap taste divine,’ especially since they invariably managed to be followed with mention of how you’d really like having the skill when all you had was bush tucker (meaning whatever you could find to eat in the Outback). 

As the sun set, however, temperatures inside the building began to drop significantly. So much so that by the time you and Junkrat retired to your (separate) bunks you had already decided to burrow into your sleeping bag rather than the sheets. 

You’d been asleep for maybe an hour when Junkrat shook you awake, looking like a miserable marshmallow for all his layers and sad expression. 

“The fuck, dude,” you muttered sleepily. 

“I can’t sleep,” he whined. “It’s too cold.” 

“Go get a sleeping bag then,” you yawned. You finished by murmuring “You idiot.” 

“Couldn’t find one,” he whispered, face suddenly next to yours. “Can we share? Just for tonight. We can find another in the morning.” 

“No,” you said as you pushed his face away in the darkness, though your hand stayed on his cheek afterwards, thumb scraping lightly over his stubble. Purely due to tiredness. Clearly. 

“Please? I swear ta God I won’t do nothing. I won’t even touch ya. I promise.” 

Groaning, you unzipped the sleeping bag with a muttered “Fine.” As if he’d leave you alone about this. 

“Thanks, darl,” he whispered, kissing you quickly on the brow before burrowing into the open bag, his back to you. 

You shifted uncomfortably until you managed to free an arm from where it had been pinned beneath him. Uncertain with what to do with it and not wanting to give Junkrat ideas, you lightly laid it on your side. 

“G’night, darl,” you heard Junkrat murmur. 

“G’night Junkrat,” you replied, already halfway asleep once more. 


	9. Interlude: Maninya 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA Of What Does A Rat Dream?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **Important**_ : Potentially gruesome and shocking chapter (because messed up people have messed up dreams). I am therefore here to announce that it is for reasons of body horror here that the rating has jumped up. I'm sure everyone would prefer it to have been for reasons of sexiness.

The flies buzz about his ears as the dry earth crunches beneath him. 

He stares down at his feet as he walks, watching the way the red dust springs up with each step and curls around his bare toes. He looks up.

Two bowls, one red as rust, one blue as a vein, joined at the horizon in a hazy grey cloud. Two bowls make up his world.

The sun hangs in the sky like a circlet. Hollow in the centre and a burning, gleaming gold.

He is alone and there is nothing to be seen. No plants, no animals, no people... not even a rock to break the monotony of the rust red sand and the vein blue sky.

There is nothing here beyond the dust, the sky, the sun, the flies that buzz about his ears, his bare feet, and the footsteps he leaves behind him. 

No, wait - in the distance, there on the horizon: a table.

The one legged table is painted white and beneath the painted, peeling varnish he can see dark wood peeking through. A green and pink crochet doily in the shape of a flower sits in the centre. His fingers trail over it, remembering coolness and colour and comfort but not knowing why.

Upon the doily appears a radio, the antenna quirked at odd angles at each of its joints.

He turns it on. Static.

He turns the dial. Cello music accompanied by nonsense words.

He turns the dial. Static, through which he can hear distant laughter.

He turns the dial. Indistinct whispers.

He turns the dial. Static, through which he can hear a news report.

_“... and later today Prime Minister ... representatives from the Aboriginal community, along with those from the Northern ... discuss the secession of territory ... Omnium to the ... peace treaty ... United Nations following the cessation of hostilities ... last year ... Members of the Australian Liberation Front ... vocal opposition to these meetings ... secession is ... losses suffered during the Crisis ... increasing hostilities betwe-”_

Suddenly a smooth and pale hand shuts off the radio. He looks up.

A woman with hair like waves of burnished gold spilling over her bare shoulders and bulging stomach smiles at him, lips curved up like the crescent moon. Her face is familiar and yet not, and he dimly remembers coolness and colour and comfort.

Her eyes are covered by her hair. 

Her skin is pale. Too pale. 

Lips red as blood, skin white as snow.

Something bulbous shifts in her belly, pressing against the skin.

The radio breaks apart into pieces of junk beneath her hand. He knows they are useless, but touches one of the wires anyway.

His hand is burnt when he pulls it away, flesh breaking into jagged, singed shards as he flexes his fingers.

 _“Careful, Jamie.”_ The words come from her, but her mouth doesn’t move.

He moves the hair from her face.

She has no eyes.

The flesh gives way like wet paper, leaving a black hole on her forehead.

He watches as her smile deepens, curling over her face. Up past her cheekbones. Black ochre seeps through the lengthening lips, falling like rain onto her generous bosom and roiling belly.

Somebody laughs. It is a tinkling sound, light and airy.

The mouth snaps open like a gunshot. 

Black bile seeps out as a giant unblinking and bloodshot eye stares at him.

He looks down, watching the way her belly bulges and remembers sensations of abandonment and confusion and fear. 

On the horizon appears a bright flash of light.

A wind howls, coming from the flash and sounding like a train and shattering glass and someone screaming.

Her belly bursts open, spewing forth bile that washes over the table and paints it black.

From the pulsating wound bombs fall freely.

The smiling faces on the bombs blink up at him and laugh as he wipes the blackness from his lips.

He climbs through the hole to escape the eye.

The room is red with fleshy walls that pulsate in time with the beating heart which adorns one of its corners.

The shadow of a man sits in the centre of the room, folded over the polished cello at a broken angle. His head is bobbing in time to the heartbeat as he draws the bow across the strings.

The sound is that of flies buzzing. A few crawl over his cheek. Fucking flies.

He slaps them and they burst with the sound of a laugh, staining his cheek with yellow paint.

Someone whispers, the words echoing around the room and inaudible but for the repetitions of a name; his name. _Jamie._

The shadow looks up at him, eyes two pricks of gold amongst the red. The fading sensation is that of pride and playfulness and protection.

His arm twinges. When he looks down, he sees that the orange paint is new and the lines are smooth.

When he looks up, he is back outside.

Surrounded by nothing.

His arm is gone, and he is alone.

No wait - in the distance, there on the horizon: a familiar man.

The red headed man is standing inside a deep hole, digging further. Empty bottles surround the hole like toy soldiers. Behind the hole is a wooden pole, stuck with a gleaming army knife. He is certain - there lies safety and calmness and fun.

The man looks up, green eyes piercing through him.

He smiles and waves him over. He answers this with a smile of his own, and takes a step forward.

The flies buzz in his ears.

Someone grabs him around the waist and pulls him back.

He is forced to the ground, gagging on the rust red dirt. Where he spits the ground becomes mud the colour of blood. The frigid mud slowly slides beneath him as he struggles, gathering into a sinking pit.

On the horizon appears a bright flash of light.

The hollow sun glares down at him and everything coalesces in a blinding blaze of yellow.

Coldness washes over him as his assailant straddles his back, their weight crushing him into the sagging, frozen earth.

He is drowning, gulping down the bloody mud as he falls further into its grasp. His hand scrabbles before him, clawing seeping furrows in the red dust.

His eyes shoot open.

A shadow hovers over him.

He reacts.


	10. Chapter Five: Day Two, Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA Wherein There Are Sleepy Kisses

When you slowly woke the next morning from pleasant enough dreams (all things considered), your entire body was warm. Which was so _incredibly_ pleasant after the number of time you’d come close to frostbite yesterday that you almost didn’t want to extricate yourself from the sleeping bag. You were warm, the mattress beneath you was soft, and Junkrat’s snores were even deemed cute by your slowly awakening brain. The brief thought of a snoring puppy came to mind and you smiled as you enjoyed the warmth and comfort of the bed.

So what if Junkrat’s back was crowding you into the corner of the bag? So what if his shoulder was pressing into you slightly as result of gravity trying to pull him onto his back in his sleep? So what if your arm was curled over his chest and half trapped now under his arm? So what if you found yourself looking at Junkrat’s sleeping face in the flickering light from the hall, and realising he was half-way decent looking?

Hm. On second thought, all that _was_ something to take issue with. Obviously the recent and sudden decline in caffeine in your life was to blame for this odd line of thinking. Because that’s how caffeine withdrawal works. Yep. _Totally_ not scapegoating the most common drug of choice among academics. Or ex-academics, in your case.

Still… you were curious.

Slowly, you raised yourself up to examine the sleeping junker’s face.

Hm… Yep. At least half-way decent looking. Perhaps even more so, if he weren’t so filthy.

Before you realised that the thought had occurred to you, your hand moved from his chest to attempt to brush some of the soot off his cheek. Your fingers rasped over the prickly stubble there and came away grey-tinged with ash. Meanwhile, there was no visible change to the cleanliness of his face whatsoever. You were disappointed by this for some reason.

His eyebrows twitched and he snorted once in his sleep before his hand came up to swat sleepily at the air.

“Fucking… flies,” Junkrat muttered into the pillow shortly before resuming his snoring.

How cute - he was dreaming of Australia. You smiled briefly in distantly fond amusement. Briefly. And then caught yourself and scowled instead.

Yep. You _desperately_ needed to find caffeine. Surely there must be some _somewhere_ in the kitchen.

Then you remembered that the sleeping bag only had _one_ side with a zipper.

One side which was ever so conveniently blocked by Junkrat.

Aw crap.

Deciding that, for reasons of sleeping people being less of a pain (and absolutely nothing to do with any lingering ‘cute’ thoughts), it would be a better idea to let the junker snore on for a bit, you began to wiggle about as carefully as possible.

Only to discover that Junkrat had managed to pin the bag around himself in such a way that simply lifting the flap and stepping out was impossible. So you did the next most logical thing your sleep-addled brain could come up with, still wanting to avoid waking him.

You clambered over Junkrat. Or at least tried to.

You had thrown your leg over him and had _just_ begun to shift your weight over him when his eyes shot open. 

The next thing you knew, you were coughing with your back pressed flat on the cold floor. Junkrat’s right elbow was pressing harshly into your throat as he pinned you down, left hand pulled back in a fist. You shut your eyes in fear, only reopening them again when his open hand slapped to the floor next to your head.

The man was obviously still half asleep as he blinked down at you with a confused expression, the flickering hall lights illuminating his unkempt blond hair in small spurts and throwing shadows across his face. It was obvious from the slow widening of his eyes just when his brain started to catch up with his actions.

“Shit, sorry, darl. Didn’t mean ta hurt ya - had a bad dream is all. I’m sorry.” In his recently awoken state his voice was deeper and rougher, causing you to recall certain fantasies you’d had over the past months. He quickly moved his arms to the floor, elbows resting just beside your shoulders, and kissed your neck where his arm had been pressing deepest. “Sorry.”

Yeah... you couldn’t pretend to blame a lack of caffeine for the way you gasped at the feeling of his lips on your throat, or the way your head fell back with a tired purr.

Junkrat’s hand slid into your hair and tangled in the locks, tugging them lightly as he peppered kisses along your throat and jaw, no longer solely on the sore spot his elbow had left. The tongs that made up his prosthetic right hand snapped next to your ear, almost catching it as his elbow came up to support his weight. His chest and lower body crushed yours, harsh angles softened by the multiple layers you both had on. All the while he murmured his apologies, open lips catching on your skin lightly at each repeated ‘sorry’.

Caffeine also _really_ couldn’t be blamed for the way your hands came up to tangle in his hair and impulsively pull at the matted and patchy locks there.

You didn’t even attempt to pull him away - you were just _pulling_ at him and enjoying the sensations.

Junkrat groaned at that, looking down at you with hooded eyes. His hand in your hair twisted to grab a larger chunk and tugged sharply. When you groaned, his jaw fell open slightly to release a pant of desire. Glancing up at him you saw that his eyes were trained on your mouth.

You were dimly aware of warning bells in the back of your head as you licked your upper lip.

The hand in your hair tightening suddenly to the point of near pain was your only warning before Junkrat’s mouth was on yours.

Your teeth clashed together as he moulded his lips to yours, drinking you in like a man who had just found an oasis in the desert. The hand in your hair angled your head just right as the kiss deepened, causing you to moan.

He tasted of ash and last night’s supper. You found you didn’t care about that when he groaned, pressing you more firmly to the floor as you kissed back with a matching intensity.

Then he caught your lower lip in between his sharp teeth and worried it, simultaneously tugging at your hair sharply again. You gasped, brow furrowing at the pain and confused at the rising pleasure that drowned out the warning bells. Junkrat hummed in the back of his throat, lathing his tongue over the bite before giving a biting kiss to your jaw.

You hissed through your teeth and tightened your hands in his hair as he moved across your throat again, first biting and then soothing the skin with his tongue and lips.

Then, with a harsh tug on your scalp drawing another gasp from your lungs, he was pulling you up into a sitting position as he stood on his knees. Your legs fell around his, lightly curling over his thighs as one of your arms curled over his shoulders for support. When his prosthetic hand pressed into your lower back to hold you against him, your small moan was quickly echoed by his loud one.

And then you were on your back again, sliding across the floor slightly as Junkrat’s hips started to press between the juncture of your legs. You couldn’t feel anything beyond the friction due to the multiple layers of clothing between you, but the increasingly rhythmic pressure was causing an instinctual reaction in you as you arched into his touch.

With a growl emanating from the back of his throat, Junkrat’s hand shot from your head to pull at the collar of your coat. The zipper caught briefly before he managed to tear it down and trail his mouth down your neck with an almost reverent softness that quickly gave way to harsh bites. Junkrat whined lowly as he nipped at your collar bone just above your sweaters, whispering against the hollow of your throat how good you felt, how ace you were, how much he wanted to _root_ you.

And, despite all of your history together, all you could think was _yes_.

Later you could and would blame simply being horny, but right now all that mattered to you was that this felt _good_.

His hand moved back to your head, long fingers twisting through your hair again and pulling sharply as he bit his way back up your throat and jaw to pant in your ear.

Junkrat cooed dirty praises and broken curses and promises of what he’d be doing to you if he had both hands as he pressed more insistently into you. His sharp teeth caught your earlobe in an effort to quiet a loud groan when you scraped your fingernails over his scalp and down the back of his neck. Your eyes fluttered open at the sensation and you found that your vision was level with the hallway door.

The sight of the corpse staring at you in a pool of flickering light outside brought you crashing unpleasantly back to reality.

Junkrat didn’t seem to notice that you had frozen beneath him until you started pushing at his shoulders. With a groan, he slid his hand down your arm to pin your left hand above your head as he bit you just below your ear.

“God, I’ve wanted this for so _long_ , been so damn patient, ah _shit_ ,” he was groaning against your skin as you pulled at his hair again, this time trying to dislodge him. “Yer so good, darl, so fucking _good_.” He cursed again, breath escaping sharply over the word as he rocked against you more firmly.

“Stop,” you hissed as you pushed at his shoulder with your free hand. “I want to stop.”

Junkrat groaned again, dragging his lips along your jaw as he murmured, “Why? It’s just us here. Don’t gotta worry ‘bout what no one thinks.”

That wasn’t the reason at all, you found yourself thinking as you tried to pull your wrist from his hold. “I said _stop_.”

He chuckled breathily. Then his hand firmly slid up to yours as he interlaced your fingers together. “C’mon, darl,” he whispered cajolingly, open mouth hovering over yours briefly before kissing you again. “Ya don’t gotta pretend ya don’t want this.”

Grimacing now, you pulled your lips away from his to spit out, “Let me go.” How had he described this sort of stuff again? Oh, right. “I’m not playing.”

Now it was the junker’s turn to freeze. Slowly, he pulled himself up to glare down at you on all fours. “Why.”

Your brain stuttered as you took in his dishevelled appearance. Well, more dishevelled than usual. 

Why didn’t you want this? There were multiple reasons. 

The dead bodies in the hall, just beyond the open doorway. The increasing frigidity of the air as the heating system failed. The fact that you needed to get a move on if you were going to even consider reaching the temple today. 

The fact that you, honestly, didn’t feel you could trust him after all his lies. Not yet. Especially with the niggling fear of what this could lead to, how things would change.

Realisation of the fact that you still had a number of reasons to dislike him (namely it being his fault you were even stuck here with him), even though your life was far better with Overwatch than it had been before.

The warning bells had never been louder as your gaze fell to his lips despite all that.

“This was a mistake,” you said as you pushed him off you and stood up, eyes locked on the corpse as you zipped back up your coat.

Junkrat glared up at you, twisting his fist in the fabric on the leg of his green pants as he rocked back on his heel, peg leg folding easily beneath him. “Why the _fuck_ is it a mistake? I was a goddamn gentleman all of yesterday and all through the fucking night - kept my hands ta meself, just like I said I would, even with the holy grail of temptation right at my fucking fingertips.” 

“ ‘Sides, ya seemed pretty fucking into it, doll,” he added as he slowly stood to tower over you with a dark expression on his face, lust filled eyes dragging languidly over you before flicking back to your face. “All that pressing up ‘gainst me, all that moaning.” Opening his mouth wetly, he mimicked your moans and groans in a high pitched voice and laughed cruelly when you blushed. “Don’t tell me this was just another cunting _act_.”

You stared at him, arms crossed over your chest and unable to comprehend for a moment and wanting to point out _so_ many flaws with his train of thought. “What would even be the _point_ of putting on an act like _that_ ,” you questioned, choosing the most obvious.

Junkrat nearly exploded with anger at that, arms shooting into the air as he shouted, “Well how the absolute _bloody_ fuck should I know? You’re the fucking actress, you tell me! Oh, no, wait - _maybe_ ya just like winding me up and laughing when ya see how I react!” He laughed, teeth flashing as his eyes bored into yours. “Wouldn’t be the first fucker ta think it’d be funny ta see me think there’s someone ace what’d actually want me.”

You opened your mouth to retort angrily, but he spoke over you with a cold smile. “Yeah, nah, now what was it ya said yesterday? Oh _right_. _Ahem._ ‘Shut up, I don’t care ‘bout your excuses.’ ” He stomped out of the room, pausing to glare at the corpse beyond the door. Cocking his head to the side, he stepped on the bloated stomach with his peg leg and breathed out a giggle as he watched the foul bile spill from the lips.

Well now, _that’s_ not disturbing in the least. He turned to look at you over his shoulder when you shuddered, golden eyes glinting in the light. “I’ll be in the dunny if ya need me.”

Then Junkrat disappeared into the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind him. You moved hesitantly into the hall, heading to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. As you passed the bathroom door, you heard him muttering to himself. Glass shattered suddenly, causing you to shiver as you entered the kitchen.

The man could be frightening sometimes.

The sound of explosions came from the bathroom.

Yep. Definitely could be frightening.

And joy of _joys_ , you got to have to rely on him.

You couldn’t wait to be off this mountain and back to your regularly (if poorly) scheduled meetings of banter-laden combat. At least then you wouldn’t have to worry about stuff like... whatever just happened.

One thing was clear, however: you should be careful around him when he’s asleep. You rubbed absently at your throat as you grabbed a kettle.

The water had apparently frozen in the pipes, and you carefully ignored the frozen corpse outside when you went to collect snow. At least the gas still worked, and with a set of matches filched from Junkrat’s bag there was little issue in getting things working. Which meant delicious caffeinated beverages were in order. 

Heating the snow took a bit of time. Deciding to be proactive during this time, you finally got around to working up the courage to drag the corpses in the hall outside (gagging all the while and grabbing new gloves when you were done). By the time you finally stirred the coffee together on the stove, you were more than a tad impatient for the beverage.

You paused suddenly as your hands gripped a second packet of coffee mix. Did Junkrat even _drink_ coffee? Did he even _need_ it?

Wait, no. The correct question was ‘why were you considering making Junkrat coffee?’

With a sigh, you tore open the packet. Maybe he’d be less angry once he had breakfast. He might even forgive you slightly if you brought him warm food. Anyway, being pissy at each other would do you no good in the long run. You still needed to rely on each other for survival, after all. You realised this, and were pretty sure he was at least vaguely aware of it too.

And, you thought as you set his coffee on the stove to heat, you’d need him on your side when you met up with Roadhog.

No way in Hell did you trust his assurance that the massive masked man wouldn’t kill you.

You licked your lip before you took a sip of your hot coffee and realised that the taste of Junkrat’s mouth had lingered. You hummed into the cup pensively as you let the bitterness of your beverage wash it away.

Well. Pretending you weren’t at least a _little_ attracted to him wasn’t possible anymore. You had to face that truth head on.

You wondered vaguely what your friends and family back home would say to the idea of you finding a giant, filthy, foul-languaged explosives junkie attractive. You could only imagine how dumfounded they’d all be. After all, as far as they knew you were just doing top secret archival work. Not exactly the kind of work that would explain meeting someone like Junkrat.

They’d probably classify it as some sort of mental break. And they’d possibly be right. You were certain by this point that if you ever got back to Colorado you’d be begging for time off to visit a psychologist.

The oatmeal bubbled on the burner, and you shoved the thoughts aside. You could worry about your newly realised attraction to your erstwhile enemy later. 

You ate your oatmeal relatively slowly, waiting to see if Junkrat would come out before taking his off of the stove. By the time you finished, there were no more loud noises from the bathroom. However there was no Junkrat, either.

Cluttering around in the cabinets, you found a beaten tray and loaded it up before heading towards the kitchen door. At the last moment, you turned and set the tray down. It took a bit of rummaging to find in the parachute bag thanks to how quickly he had been eating them, but eventually you unearthed a packet of strawberry flavoured Pop Rocks.

You hoped he’d had enough time to calm down as you carefully walked to the bathroom. You didn’t relish the idea of him trying to blow you up to avenge his rejection or some other stupid shit.

Were you unsure this placative overture would work? Yes.

Were you perhaps being too nice to someone who probably didn’t deserve it, as usual? Yes.

Damn your conscience.

Pausing outside the door you listened for a moment, but didn’t hear anything.

“Junkrat,” you called as you rapped the metal door softly.

“The fuck do you _want_ ,” came the annoyed reply.

“I brought you some breakfast.” When he didn’t respond, you knocked again. “Can I come in?”

You heard him snort derisively with laughter. “Ya wanna make _another_ mistake? Hmm... not entirely sure if I’m in the mood right now.”

Biting you lip, you considered your situation. What was the worst he could do?

Well, he could plant a bomb on you, but he’s also made quite clear that he doesn’t want to hurt you. Your throat still tingled with the reminder of his apologies.

Squaring your shoulders, you decided that the fact he was even speaking to you at all was a _good_ sign. Maybe you could use the rather obvious fact that he was _intensely_ attention-starved and infatuated with you to get him to calm down, at least.

So what if it was mildly manipulative? 

Okay, yeah, you cared a _bit_ that it was manipulative, but this was for survival (in the long run). That made it alright, didn’t it?

God. You _really_ hoped that dealing with Junkrat for however long you two were stuck together didn’t end up making you a crazy manipulative bitch.

Then a better idea hit you.

“Hey, Junkrat, remember our truce,” you asked, pausing to see if he’d respond.

And respond he did, saying, “Yeah. What of it?” From within the bathroom came echoes which signalled that he was walking towards the door.

Continuing on, you said, “Remember how we promised no more games or lies? Well, technically that includes acting, and... Well, best I can do is promise to not put on an any acts while we’re stuck together.”

Fuck apologising for your behaviour. You didn’t do anything wrong (beyond allowing your hormones to take control).

Junkrat’s derisive laughter sounded again, this time just on the other side of the door. “And howzit I’m gonna be sure _this_ isn’t an act?”

You rolled your eyes in frustration. You were trying to be nice here - the least he could do was open the door. As you responded, you forced yourself to keep a pleasant tone. “Junkrat, I swear on my bones that I won’t pull another act on you.” 

Aw crap, the frustration had bled through slightly.

Still, the door opened after a pause. For a moment neither of you moved as Junkrat stood at full height over you with his elbows supporting his weight on the doorframe. His golden eyes positively glowed in the flickering lights as they searched your face and looked over the tray. Upon noticing the Pop Rocks the guarded expression he wore lost much of its severity, and he grabbed the tray from your hands with a small smile.

“Well, it’s a start,” Junkrat said, but you didn’t hear him clearly as you gaped over his shoulder at the destruction he had wrought to the bathroom.

The stalls were studded with bits of porcelain, both from the sinks and the toilets. The showers stalls were nothing but warped pieces of metal, and there were shards of broken glass everywhere; from the mirrors, from the glass walls separating two sections of showers, from the lights... You weren’t sure how he’d managed this much destruction with just what was on his person.

Okay. _Perhaps_ you should take him more seriously. “How did you even do all that,” you asked, hardly realising the question until it was out of your mouth.

Junkrat blinked and looked over his shoulder. “Oh, yeah. _That_.” Turning to the side, he leant against the door, looking for all the world like he was seeing the ruin within for the first time. “Needed ta blow some steam for, ah, multiple reasons,” he said. A slow smile crept across his features as he licked his teeth and snickered. “Get it? Blow?”

This evasive child was permanently out to give you a headache, it seemed, due to irritation over either his terribly obvious and filthy innuendos _or_ his groan worthy jokes. 

“Terrible puns aside,” you said with a light drawl, earning a laugh from your... companion(?), “I’m more curious _where_ you were hiding whatever you used to do all this.” 

Golden eyes traced from your extended hand up your arm and lingered on your exposed throat before finally meeting yours. Cocking his head at you with a smirk, Junkrat replied in an amused tone, “As per our truce, I can’t keep secrets, but all I’m gonna say to this is that if you’re so curious, why don’t ya try and figure it out yourself? Shouldn’t be too hard for ya.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’m not going to frisk you just because you won’t answer a simple question.”

Junkrat laughed, almost dropping the tray and sloshing coffee from the cup. “Oh, darl, never said you’d hafta _frisk_ me. But, if ya wanna try it, I won’t stop ya.” Suddenly he stopped laughing, smile taking on a hard edge once more. “ ‘Course, ya prolly should make _sure_ ya wanna try it. No promises on how I’d react ta your feeling me up.”

You hummed. Two could play at that game. “Well, then,” you said gravely, “no promises on it being all that thorough when it happens. Wouldn’t want you to react too _explosively_.”

You smiled at his stunned expression before turning down the hall. “Now, if we’re done here, I’m going to find you a sleeping bag.” Turning, you looked pointedly at the steaming oatmeal starting to tilt off the drooping tray in his hands. “Oh, and Junkrat, you should probably eat before your food gets cold.”

His response was a curse and a clatter as he righted the tray, but before he could say or do anything else you were disappearing into the storage room.

At least he hadn’t lied about actually trying to find a sleeping bag last night.

Almost everything was on the floor, pulled from the shelves and reducing the once organised room to a mess of sweaters, coats, hiking equipment, and other like oddities. With a groan, you started to try and change the chaos from total to organised. Screw cleaning up after him completely. You weren’t a maid.

It didn’t take too long to sort through the clothes, as you just threw them into piles dependant on type, but the hiking gear took a bit more time. And then it was time to root around in the supply boxes Junkrat had failed to raid yet.

In the very back there was a single unopened supply box that had fallen between the shelves. In it you found several sleeping bags. Ha. Problem solved.

Grinning to yourself over your second tiny thrill of victory today, you stood with the sleeping bag. Turning back to the door, you jumped slightly when you saw Junkrat leaning there watching you.

“How long have you been standing there,” you asked. You were more than prepared for a leer.

And there it was. “Eh, long enough, love.”

“How delightful,” you quipped with a sneer. “Is there something you want, Junkrat, or were you just going to leer at me from the doorway?”

Junkrat blinked at you, eyes darting to your neck again, and giggled. “Yanno, you’ve got me rather up the pole as ta what kinda shot I’ve got here.”

Your eyes twitched as familiar sensations of confusion set in. “What?”

He laughed. “Righto, my bird, from now on if ya wanna learn the way I talk ya gotta actually ask for it. Like ya did with spunk an’ carpet grub yesterday. More fun that way, an’ all that.” His arms crossed in front of him as he grinned at you. “Anyway mate, just came ta thank ya for brekkie; know ya didn’t hafta do that for me. Goddamn angel, you are. Sure the coffee was a bit lacking in the sugar department, but who am I ta complain? Right fucking luxury ta have it at all.”

You tilted your head to the side slightly. “Isn’t saying something was lacking technically complaining?”

Junkrat shrugged as he turned to face down the hall slightly. “Eh, whatevs. I can whinge if I like.” He paused, staring off into space for a moment as you neared. With a jolt, he was back in the real world. “Oi, sweets, d’ya think ya can do me a good one and grab a bucket an’ go drain some of the snowmobiles if they’ve got any liquid fuel?”

“Uh, yeah,” you said, confused once more. “But why?”

He was only half paying attention as he responded, talking a mile a minute as he walked down the hall towards the boiler room and leaving you to follow. 

“I was taking a look at the generator while I was eating my brekkie (I did thank ya for that already, didn’t I?) an’ the piece of shit’s tank’s like a dead dingo’s donger and I didn’t see no cans. Why’d they even got a generator like that though? Most these days run solar. Makes sense I guess, given that everything here is ‘bout fifty fucking years outta date _at least_ , but yanno I’d actually’ve thought that a buncha suits like Talon would at least be able ta put some real tech into one of their hidey holes, an’ - ”

You tapped him on the arm, breaking his concentration on... whatever it was. “Is there a point to all this,” you asked.

“Wha... Oh, _right_. No, yeah, there is a point.” He jerked a thumb at the generator through the open door to the boiler room and the bullet ridden generator that noisily plugged away inside. “The generator’s a damn petrol powered piece’a junk. See, my guess was that if everything else here is so ancient the most likely thing is that the snowmobiles are petrol too. Which means...” He trailed off, looking at you expectantly.

“Which means... that we can siphon gas from the snowmobiles to refill the generator,” you replied with barely a pause. Too easy.

Junkrat smiled at you and held up his hand for a high five. ”Good on ya! Knew you was quick, darl.”

You hesitated a moment before returning the gesture. Surprise flickered across Junkrat’s features before his air of confidence was back in full swing. 

“Righto, so... off ya go. Not here ta fuck spiders,” he said as he turned you around and pushed you lightly down the hall. For some reason the phrase made him pause and break into laughter as he turned to the damaged generator, one hand already moving to his side pouch. “ _Hehehe_ , gotta remember ta use that ‘round Chuckles next time I see her...”

You had half a mind to storm after him and ask what exactly he’d meant, but the gist was clear enough. Get to work.

With a sigh you returned to the supply room and grabbed a bucket. You turned to exit and paused. Wait a minute.

You stared at the bucket.

How were you going to get the fuel (if there was any) _from_ the tanks into the bucket? You cast your eyes over the organised chaos you and Junkrat had turned the orderly storage room into. 

Okay, so you obviously needed a hose and some kind of pump to even draw the liquid out.

Looking over the medical supplies, you found some surgical tubing and one of those arm cuff things used to check blood pressure. Hm. No - that wouldn’t work. Shifting through a few more supplies found you one a large eye dropper. You slid the eyedropper into the surgical tube, testing the suction.

Well, it worked at least.

You looked down at your basic contraption again. Yeah... This would _not_ work. You didn’t have the patience or will to sit outside in the cold trying to drain gasoline from a tank using a tube only a few scant centimetres thick.

A thought struck you suddenly. _Did_ the snowmobiles even use liquid fuel?

Forgoing the effort of putting your scarf, hat, and gloves, you quickly ran outside and over to the snowmobiles. It took you long enough to regret your haste as the cold nipped away at you, but when you finally reentered the slightly warmer shelter you had the welcomed reassurance that the snowmobiles would be useful in refilling the generator’s tank.

Now back to figuring out how to unlock that usefulness. 

Well, you could always ask Junkrat if he had any ideas. You discarded that thought. You wanted to prove that you could figure this out on your own. You weren’t a complete sap.

Oh, wait, there’s an idea. You remembered how people had been tapping trees for their sap since time immemorial. Surely the same principle could be applied to getting fuel from a snowmobile.

In any case, it’d be faster than trying to pump it out.

The downside to this was that you didn’t see anything to bore a hole with in the supply room. Whelp. Time to ask Junkrat.

“Hey, Junkrat, I’ve got a question,” you declared as you entered the boiler room. “Do you ha- uh, where’d you go?”

The room was empty, and the only change you saw was that the case to the generator was popped open. Well, that and the bloom of various pieces of scrap around it.

A clatter came from the kitchen.

“Junkrat,” you called out as you entered to find... apparently no one. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end slightly. Were there ghosts here? Ah crap, you’d stepped on one of their corpses. That meant that they’d definitely be out for you if - 

Another clatter came from the industrial dishwasher in the corner.

You grabbed a metal ladle for protection as you neared it. Maybe stainless steel would protect you the same way silver would.

There was another pile of wires and scrap metal outside the low maintenance hatch. A clatter sounded from within and then Junkrat appeared, scrabbling forward on his stomach with a screwdriver between his teeth and pushing a small pile of metal into the open like the world’s largest mole.

He quirked an eyebrow at you and spat his screwdriver into his hand. “Innit a bit early ta be making lunch, darl,” he questioned with a bemused smile, looking pointedly at the ladle you had raised in the air as he rested his head on his fist.

You shifted embarrassedly. “I, uh, didn’t know where you were.”

“Ah _huh_ ,” he replied, laughter tinging his voice. “So the obvious answer ta that was ta arm yourself with a spoon.”

He laughed when you sheepishly lowered the ladle. “I’ll have you know,” you huffed, attempting to sound dignified, “that I came to ask you if you had anything to bore holes with.”

Junkrat chuckled again. “Sure. Got lotsa stuff ta bore holes with. But, _haha_ darl, I thought ya didn’t like mistakes.” His smile was wicked.

You blinked at him. What was... _Oh._ The little shit. “Ha ha, that’s hilarious. To be more clear, boring holes in _metal_. Without the generator this place will become a death trap. Speaking of the generator, what are you doing in _here_ ,” you asked, gesturing to the dishwasher as you knelt down to his level.

Junkrat grinned toothily at you. “Nice ta know it’s funny to ya, mistakes. Who knows? Ya might be willing ta make more that way.” His laughter sounded darker than usual, but he continued on glibly. “Anyway, mate, I’m here ‘cause I got fed up with not having thumbs on both hands.”

He held up his ‘hands,’ demonstrating the issue by clacking the tongs on the right together twice. “So’s I figured that there just might be some ace bits ta scav in the kitchen. And I was right! Look here - ” And he was off on a tirade about the bits of metal he’d been harvesting from the dishwasher, holding up each one to you and saying how useful it would be for rebuilding his arm.

Junkrat’s eyes lit up as he talked, and you almost felt bad when you interrupted to say “Yes, yes, that’s all very good. But the _generator_ needs fixing first. Which brings me back to _my_ point - do you have a borer, or whatever it’s called?”

Junkrat frowned and crossed his arms on the floor in front of him. “D’ya mean a reamer? Yeah, I got one. Why?”

“I need one to get to the fuel tanks,” you admitted. “I don’t have the will to sit in the cold and try and pump it out.”

Junkrat chortled, licking his teeth as he smiled like a cat that had caught the mouse. You had the sense that if he had both hands his fingers would be drumming together excitedly. “Oh, I love it when this happens.” He pointed at you over his nose. “I’ve got something _you_ want, which means it’s time ta haggle.”

“This is a terrible time to haggle,” you replied. Your lives were on the line (a distant truth, but a truth nonetheless).

“This is a perfect time ta haggle,” he retorted with a snort. “Now, lessee... What can _I_ get from _you_ that’s worth a reamer?”

His eyes dragged over you. You groaned. “I’m not sleeping with you for a hand tool.”

He laughed. “In all technicality of the word, we’ve already slept together twice. See? I can be clever an’ technical too, little Miss ‘North-Northwest.’ ‘Sides, if you’d be willing ta have a naughty for a reamer that means one ‘a three things.” 

He held up his fingers to count, looking smug. “One, things are fucked as shit, in which case I’d not have time ta enjoy meself. Two, you’re actually such a terrible lay that it’s only _worth_ a reamer, in which case I’d not really enjoy meself either. Three, and my personal favourite, you’re secretly hot for me and wanna have an excuse ta fuck without your sense o’ decency getting in the way.”

Junkrat waggled his bushy brows at you as your face burned. “Am I right ‘bout any of ‘em? Hope it’s the third.”

“How ‘bout four, none of the above,” you shot back. “I’m not offering anything like that.”

He looked disappointed. “Yeah, I s’pose it’d be too good ta be true. Ah well.” He smiled. “So... rooting’s outta the question. How’s about... ya let me see under your shirts.”

You scowled. “I _can_ just go and try to find another way to get to the fuel, you know.”

His golden tooth winked at you through his open mouthed bray of laughter. “Oi, yeah, nah, bet ya could do that. But you’d more’n likely not be back here if ya didn’t need my help, so... Buckley’s ta that.” Junkrat ginned, looking at you mischievously. “Well, then, how’s ‘bout a kiss, darl?”

You glared at him, and he answered it with a cheeky grin.

“Fine.”

It looked like the wind had been knocked out of him for all the surprise on his face. “What.”

You grinned at his dumfounded expression. “Give me the reamer first and I’ll give you a kiss.”

Junkrat blinked at you once before scrambling madly out from under the dishwasher, hand digging into his side pouch as he rested on his knees, nearly tearing the flap off in his haste.

He pressed the reamer into your waiting hand and leant towards you, focus entirely on your smiling lips. You ducked his face as you stood up slightly, grabbing his hand as you went and dragging the appendage with you. Junkrat gaped as you pressed your lips to the back of his hand for a moment before turning away.

“Hang on,” he squawked after you as he noisily clambered to his feet. “That wasn’t a real kiss!”

“Yes it was,” you replied in a matter of fact tone as you continued on your way, examining the reamer and vaguely pleased at you trick. “My lips have touched you in a manner that can be deemed as affectionate. Ergo, a kiss. It’s your fault for not specifying what kind of kiss a reamer was worth.”

His hand caught your shoulder and whipped you around (you were slowly realising that you should _never_ ignore him). You let out a startled squeak just as his mouth closed over yours in a brief and harsh kiss. Breaking away, he leant his sooty forehead against yours with a wide smile. “Fuck me, darl, you’ll fit right in back home.”

You grimaced as you pushed him away. “Are all bargains in exchange for kisses, then, or just yours?”

Junkrat laughed, his arms wrapping about your waist. “Just when it’s you, love.”

“Oh, _goody_ ,” you griped as you tried to twist out of his embrace. “I suppose I’ll just have to open a kissing booth - maybe one day I’ll collect enough favors to be elected mayor.”

His laughter was sharper this time. “ _Ha_ , like I’d let that happen. No one gets what’s mine.” He pulled you into a full bodied hug, left hand idly playing with your tresses.

“So I’m yours, now,” you said into his shoulder, glaring at the ceiling as your hands rested on his chest. “Not sure I like the possessiveness there, Junkrat.”

Junkrat hummed, turning his head to press his nose into your hair and huff in amusement. “Not sure I care much,” he said at length. “And that’s not my real name, ya know.”

You rolled your eyes. “No, _really_? And here I’d thought your parents were clairvoyant or something and actually named you Junkrat Fawkes.”

He chuckled and let his arms slip away from you. “Probably still would be here if they were,” he said quietly, looking pensive. Then in the blink of an eye he was jovial again. “Ah well, who cares. Anyway, my _real_ name’s Jamison.”

You looked at him carefully and saw only his hopeful smile as he waited for you to repeat his name. “Jamison Fawkes,” you finally said, figuring that you’d have time to ask about his past when there wasn’t work to be done.

His smile grew larger as he all but vibrated in place with excitement. “Yup. It’s a nice name, innit?”

You huffed in mild amusement at his enthusiasm over a simple name. “I suppose. Lord knows you already know my name thanks to that file you’ve apparently memorized.”

Junkrat, _Jamison_ , smiled like a crocodile as he said your full name. “I like it. Oh, but _you_ should call me Jamie. Rolls off the tongue easier, don’t it?”

Hello, warning bells. “Bit intimate, isn’t it,” you said as you headed to the door, grabbing your scarf and hat from the top of your bag as you went.

“Well, yeah. Isn’t that the point of nicknames,” he called after you.

“Between people who are friends, yeah.” Right, so bucket, reamer... Time to suit up.

He stuck his head out the door after you with a cross expression. “Ain’t we friends? No? Well then what are we exactly.”

You paused in winding your scarf around your neck, raising an eyebrow at him. You honestly didn’t know how to answer that. 

Saying enemy would be weird, all things considered, and yet it was the most factually correct. You wouldn’t say friends, despite the admittedly flirtatious and friendly banter you’d just had. You _definitely_ weren’t lovers or strangers, and had spent too much time together to say mere acquaintances. And you had the feeling he’d be offended if you said stalker and victim, despite the truth to the statement (and the truth that you’d stalked him too a bit, just with security cameras instead of a hacker). 

Time to get technical.

“A couple of twenty-five year olds lost in the mountains,” you responded flatly. From the sour expression he levelled at your response, it hadn’t been what he was hoping for. “Now, what’s that expression you used? Not here to fuck spiders?”

Jamison laughed and tapped his nose as he pulled back into the kitchen. “Ya got your eyes on the prize, mate. I love it.”

Drilling the holes in the snowmobiles took some time, especially since you stopped to lightly cover the corpses with snow in a hasty burial, but you had drained two of the five by the time Jamison came to check on you. He’d changed his clothes for some reason, and was now wearing an entirely red ensemble. Great. Now you’d look like one of those crazy couples who wear matching costumes and are hyped for Christmas a few months too early.

The sun glinted off his right hand. Oh, look. He had two arms one more. His promises from earlier played through your mind and you looked back to your work. No. Now was _not_ the time to be distracted.

He called your name as he approached, holding out his right hand. “Lookit! I managed to cobble together a hand with _fingers_ again.”

You looked over, mildly and honesestly curious about the metallic limb. The colouring was a mix of white chrome and stainless steel, scattered with a few pieces of battered orange from the older prosthesis.

You shrugged as you spun the reamer into the third tank. “Well done,” you said evenly. “You have two thumbs now. Oh what horrors you will surely wreak.”

Jamison bent over the seat of the snowmobile to watch you work with a smile, hands laced together and thumbs twiddling. “Yeah, _horror_. Speaking of, I’ll just bet I can get ya ta scream later.”

Your hand slipped as the reamer suddenly pierced the tank and petrol started flowing over your gloves. So much for _these_. You’d have to get another pair. Cursing, you shoved the almost full bucket underneath. “Do you need to turn everything into innuendo,” you shot up at him, irked beyond belief.

His smirk was much closer than you would’ve expected. “No, but it’s fun ta mess with ya.” Laughing he pushed away in time for the lump of snow you sent his way to miss.

A loose spray of snow hit your eyes a few seconds later. You spluttered against it, shaking your head to clear it from you eyes, to see Jamison laughing as he stooped to pack another ball of snow.

“Jamis- Junkrat, we don’t have time to have a sn-” You blinked as the snowball he threw landed three feet away from you. Both you and Jamison frowned at it. “Dear Lord, can you not aim?”

“Oi, I’ve never done this before,” he cried out plaintively, throwing up his arms as if that proved his point. “Can’t I have a bit ‘a fun?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose before remembering that your gloves were stained with petrol. Slowly moving back from the smelly fluid, you blinked unhappily as Jamison snickered at you.

“Jamison,” you called out in a stern tone, causing him to immediately straighten up. “We can have _fun_ when we don’t have to worry about _freezing to death_. Now. Have you fixed up the generator?”

“Yes, _mum_ ,” he griped, surly as he kicked at the snow. “I’ve been a good boy an’ fixed the generator before going off ta play in the snow.” He winked at you with a wicked grin. “Do I win anything for me troubles?”

Grimacing, you said “Okay, never, _ever_ call me that again. Especially if you follow it with another dirty joke.”

“Who said it was dirty? Seems ta me ya just wanna put all my words into the same category, darl.”

Standing, you hefted the bucket. Good - you were still able to carry it. And, even better, it was close enough to full that it’d be really helpful for the generator.

“Jamison, everything about you is filthy,” you pointed out as you dragged the bucket towards the building.

He gasped, dramatically holding his hand to his heart again. “Why I never. I’ll have you know I try take an APC at least one every three days. At very least once a fortnight.”

You shifted the bucket handle, adjusting your grip as you went up the slight incline to the building. “What’s an APC, dare I ask?”

Sticking out his tongue in juvenile humour, he cupped his body with one hand as he replied. “Armpits and Crotch bath. APC. Saves water, time, keeps ya from getting infections. Win-wins all ‘round. Speaking of, should prolly have one soon.”

“Too much information, dude,” you replied.

“ _Haha_ , darl, dunno if ya’ve noticed, but we’re kinda in a situation where being squeamish ‘bout bodily functions don’t make no fucking sense.” He hopped down the steps. “By the by. D’ya got any ideas ‘bout how bathing works when all’s you’ve got’s fucking ice and snow?”

Suddenly you stumbled over a rock hidden beneath the snow, sloshing the precious petrol from the bucket. “God fucking _damnit_ ” you screeched, angrily jerking at the bucket and only succeeding in spilling more fuel.

Then the bucket was plucked from your hands. “Hey, now, there’s no reason ta get all stroppy over spilt petrol,” admonished Jamison.

You pointed a finger angrily in his face. “I swear to God, if you make any quips comparing this to spilt milk...”

He looked at you questioningly and said slowly “But it... _is_ like spilt milk. Ya fucked up a bit, lost something, can’t get it back, don’t matter how important it was. There’s no reason ta cry ‘bout it. Just keep trucking on an’ try again.”

“There are only two snowmobiles left though,” you pointed out.

“And the bucket’s ‘bout half full still, despite your spill,” Jamison returned, holding up the evidence in his right hand. Seeing frustrated tears well in your eyes, he lowered it again and cupped the side of your face with his gloved hand. “Look, darl, I know this all is a bit rough on ya,” he began.

“Rough,” you snarled as you slapped away his hand. “Rough? Oh my fucking _God_. _Dude_ , in the last two days, not even that! In the last _one and a half days_ I have fallen from a plane, almost frozen to death _numerous_ times, walked so long that my legs felt like they were going to _fall off_ , touched more dead bodies than I _ever_ wanted to, almost got _beaten up_ as a thanks for trying to avoid waking you this morning, been _lied_ to _so many times_ that the only thing I’m ever sure of is how badly you want to _fuck_ me, and now I can’t even try to get to a place where there will be a way to call for a pick up _away from all this shit_ because oh look! I spilt the gas and now I’m going to have to ruin the last two snowmobiles!”

Jamison was leaning back slightly by the end of your tirade. “Well. D’ya feel better now,” he asked after a beat.

You threw your hands in the air, throat sore from screaming in the cold air. “I don’t know! Okay?! I don’t know. I never wanted any of this. I wanted to be an _archivist_.”

You fell to your knees sobbing, unable to stop the tears now flowing over your cheeks. Jamison walked to the building again and disappeared inside with the bucket. You felt like laughing through the tears. You knew it - he didn’t actually care about you beyond trying to get into your pants. The realisation of this still stung for some reason. You curled over yourself into a seated foetal position, trying to hide from the world and conscious only of your loud tears.

A boot nudged your right foot, and when you blearily look up you saw Jamison standing there with a tight and pensive expression. “Right, so, look. I’m no fucking good at this. But, well...” Trailing off, he turned to sit in the snow beside you and draw you into a one armed embrace. 

He chewed his lip before continuing. “Lessee... Well, to your credit you _are_ an archivist. Just a fucking badass one what works for a secret organisation, which is admittedly my doing. Kinda like how I _was_ simply a mad bomber, but now I’m a mad bomber what works with a different secret organisation, which is... admittedly _your_ doing.” He laughed quietly, squeezing your shoulder and smiling at you. You averted your eyes, tears still rolling.

“Righto, then. Moving on. Over the last one and a half days you’ve _survived_ , even managed ta keep a cool head ‘bout it. For the most part. Which, hey, is _great_. As for the corpses...” He paused, obviously trying to choose his words carefully as he looked over to the shoddy graves you’d given them. “Well, as for them, you’ve just gotta shove it _way_ back to the back of your skull ‘till it don’t bother you no more. Eventually it’ll get ta the point where you’re just sat there going ‘ah, well. Can’t be helped. Wonder what’s in his pockets.’ ” He smiled at you again with a small laugh.

You weren’t sure this was helping. However your _tears_ were at least allowing you some respite from the stress.

Jamison’s smile melted away into that odd tight expression again as he brought up a hand to gently wipe at your tears. “And I tried ta apologise for this morning. Cocked it right up, more like, like I always do. Yanno, mistakes... an’ all that... I _really_ didn’t mean ta hurt ya, darl. As for what I want from ya, you’re right. I _do_ want ta... I mean, uh, I’d _like_ ta do that with ya, yeah. _But_ I also like ya for other reasons. You’re smart and funny, when ya aren’t trying ta be so up yourself, and _kind_ , and pretty, and...” His words slowly died away as his brow knitted.

With a sniff, he was on his feet again and grinning. “Well, c’mon then. I’ve put the petrol in the generator. Fortunately for _us_ Comrade Shoots-a-Lot shot up the generator’s tank enough that I wasn’t able ta patch it fully. Well, fortunate in a way, I guess, _haha_. Means we don’t gotta drain the other two snowmobiles!” His arms waved around as he spoke, as if trying to animate his words.

You sniffled into your glove, staining your face further with the petrol as you ground the heels of your hand into your eyes. “Really?”

He grinned, eyes wide and filled with fervour. “ _Haha_ , yeah! Great, innit? Well kind of. Does mean I had ta switch it off ta keep it from either blowing up or running outta fuel before Roadhog gets here, and, I dunno ‘bout you, but I’m not keen on sitting in what’s gonna be a bloody and dark icebox ‘till he gets here. So, how’s ‘bout we go ahead and leave all this,” he said, gesturing grandly to the building, “behind us and head toward that temple we marked last night? That way we can go on and get home in a right jiffy.”

Gulping, you nodded and took his proffered hand to help drag yourself up. You didn’t want to be stuck in this place any longer, anyway, with the blood stained walls and the memories of corpses in the halls. So what if it was potential suicide to leave? You wanted to go _home_. 

Jamison’s thumb rubbed the back of your hand comfortingly as he smiled at you. Neither of you let go until you got back inside.

Loading up your bags didn’t take very long (thanks to having all but packed them the day before), during which time Jamison penned a quick letter to Roadhog with instructions on how to turn on the generator. Using some hiking rope, you strapped them to the sides of one of the snowmobiles and clambered on.

Jamison climbed on behind you, the metal angles of his peg leg jutting uncomfortably against your thigh.

“I thought you would be taking the other snowmobile,” you said, turning slightly in the seat.

He merely smiled and wrapped his arms around your waist, his hands on your midriff and his chin on your shoulder. “Yeah, that’d make sense, but then how’s Roadhog gonna get ta the temple?”

The sun was climbing in the sky. You had to get a move on if you wanted to even get near your destination.

Shrugging, you turned forward and pressed the acceleration button. “I suppose that logic makes sense,” you said as you shot forward. Definitely made better sense than leaving the shelter, but dear _Lord_ you wanted away from the oppressive building. “Mind your hands don’t move from where they are now.”

Jamison’s answer was a tightening of his arms and a laugh in your ear.


	11. Chapter Six: Realisation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA Wherein We See What Roadhog Is Up To

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dictionary for the Pitjantjatjara I remember using (as I’ve made Roadhog at least part Anangu for reasons):  
> Kunmanara - replacement name for a deceased person.  
> Tjaka - The phrase “Just the way it is”  
> Piranpa - Literally the colour “white,” but also the word for non-Aboriginal people

It was cold. Colder than I’ve been in a long time. It reminded me of the joint training with the New Zealanders, the forced hikes on Aoraki. How cold it was, how long I walked. The only difference was that _Kunmanara_ wasn’t here to keep me company.

It had been twenty years since I’d last seen him. Twenty years since the Omnium.

The air hurt my lungs, freezing the diseased flesh even as I coughed. The next breath was deeper, longer. It was worth the pain it brought.

Pain kept me focused. Pain kept me penitent.

I deserved it. I needed it.

It gave me focus.

Focus would keep me alive.

 _Kunmanara_ would be disappointed in me. It was a wonder he had even tried to contact me in the end. Slightly less a wonder was the fact that she’d been willing to pass on the message. I hadn’t deserved the last gasp of her dead friendship. I hadn’t deserved the call. I hadn’t deserved him. I had never deserved him.

I had made it to the house too late, anyway, finding only a shallow grave marked by a wooden pole into which his familial nickname was cut. Even after his death I still managed to disappoint him. Never did find that kid he had gone on and on about. Eventually I came to the conclusion that he’d died in a ditch somewhere, if he had been lucky enough in death. 

There never had been much survival chance in the bush for a one armed nine year old on his own, even before the explosion. Especially given the tire tracks that cut off the small footprints and sped away into the desert.

Had thought for a time that I’d found him in that string bean that ‘hired’ me. Hm. Idiot. The stories didn’t check out in the end, even once I got past his bollocks bunyip story. No; far more likely the kid had gotten killed for sport or given to some ‘collector’. I’d seen it too many times. It made sense - even the semblance of innocence has a price. And when it was finally stripped away by either years or use, well... collectors knew how to put people to work. Their logic is that those who are stolen make the best thieves. And, for the most part, they’re right. Jealousy and hatred mix easily and are equally easy to twist against those who have what you had and desperately want back.

As for those who don’t prove themselves useful... Well. Collectors are vendors of many things. Besides, does anyone really care what’s in a snag?

There was a reason anyone ‘lucky’ enough to find themselves expecting another mouth to feed suddenly started setting more traps about their hovels. Their obvious tactics made them bigger targets, though usually those willing to put up a fight won. Far more common were the addicts who would go find the collectors under such circumstances. They never seemed content with themselves afterwards, at least until they hit up again.

Anarchy, self-indulgent, wolfish, and vile, in all it’s glory.

They deserve their suffering. As I deserve mine for tearing away the mask of civility.

That is the world the Rat wants to bring the girl to. He fantasises loudly about it, planning the protections for his precious prize before he even has it properly in hand. He considers neither the horrors nor how she’d very likely respond to them. He’s used to it - a part of it. Missing bits and pieces as a testimony to the terrific hardships he has endured. The fruitless fights, the never-ending hunger.

Him having eaten his arm made sense. He had that haggard look of starvation about him, voicelessly telling a tale of too many days of exertion without food. Skin drawn far too tightly over bones and wiry muscle, shallow cheeks, sunken eyes, elbows and knees too large for his limbs, teeth and hair falling out...

I remembered briefly the skeletal figures I’d seen in refugee camps during the Crisis. Pictures seen in videos sent out for history classes of other camps in the twentieth century. Tales my relos had passed down of how we had been treated by the _piranpa_.

Survivors, made lean in their hunger and filled with rage at those who stood by and watched as their worlds had been destroyed. The world belonged to them, the survivors. They who alone had the right to tear it apart, as it had them. And they, in turn, deserved the chaos they sowed.

At the base line, humans are all the same. All the same greedy wastes of creation draining everything they touch. Too many flies biting into the bleeding body of the earth, drinking it dry and turning it all to bone dry ash.

Still. The bean pole’s alright. It may be because he reminds me of _Kunmanara_. I know he knows I often think of someone else in his place. I don’t blame him for wanting to avoid getting involved because of it, even as I wonder at what maybe could have been. What’s worse is that he even resembles him more now than ever, having fattened up a bit since we joined Talon. Gave him a metric fuckton more energy to go along with it, not that he’d needed it.

Sometimes I wondered if I was remembering _Kunmanara_ , or replacing him with the Rat.

The damage was done. That’s just the way it is.

_Tjaka._

We all deserved it.

My vision spotted with the next inhale as my chest shuddered from the chill. Suddenly I couldn’t draw in any air, despite gasping like a cut fish. I tasted blood in my mouth as I bent double, practically retching through my mask as I fought against the futile shuddering of my useless lungs.

I fell to my knees, keeling over. My fingers were pulling the bag off my back even before I touched the ground, throwing the sack before me. My vision darkened as my numbing fingers plucked the pocket open and drew out the canister. I drew it up to my face with a well practiced movement.

With a dimly heard pop, the seal broke and brought the burning relief of the drug laden gas. I breathed it in greedily, sloppily, the precious vapour spilling out the sides of my mask even as I gulped it down.

My lungs shuddered as I drew in another breath of the fresh, frozen air. My heart strained loudly under its efforts to feed the oxygen to my systems.

I grit my teeth, biting back another cough as I looked down at my hands.

The work glove and my gauntlet gave my palms some protection from the cold, but I could see that my fingertips were dark blue. Testing them, I felt nothing until I pressed them to the side of my neck and the sensation of fire flew through them. Huffing, I set down the empty canister to rifle through my bag, taking stock of the things I had stowed in it before we made the jump.

The Rat had only packed his full of grenades and candy. The dag. It would have stayed that way if I hadn’t noticed.

For my own part, I had five canisters of hogdrogen. A handful of protein bars, another of trail mix, both already nearly depleted from breakfast and eating as I walked. A metal canteen. My weapons. Scrap metal. String, if I tore up the parachute. Ah, there they were. Mittens, black like the rest of my autumn ensemble.

Autumn, not winter as it should have been. Talon had either no intention of those who fell actually surviving, or this was all part of some test by the science department. I’d not put it past them. It is a curiosity to see how well desert dwellers would do in conditions so alien to themselves.

Morbid curiosity. Human curiosity. With nothing to hold us back, we will do anything to satisfy it.

It’s actually a good thing that he has the girl with him. That she wasn’t as dead as we had been led to believe a fortnight ago. She has the book knowledge of what to do here if not the experience. Even that would be of use to him, provided neither of them got distracted.

And if it messed up any testing they were doing, then so be it. Seeing that ginger bitch taken down a peg would be worth it.

The wind howled over the rocks, cutting through my jumper as if it weren’t there. I looked up. To the north was a cliff, dotted here and there with wild goats and stubborn grasses. According to the heading I’d been given, I would need to climb it. I would be exposed to the wind, the cold sapping my strength faster than I would be able to drag myself up. I would fall.

But if I had a thicker coat, like those goats... Hm. There’s an idea. Packing up the drained canister and re-shouldering my pack, I stood and neared the cliff. 

The goats were too far too hook, so instead I searched for tracks. Most were leading up to the creatures on the cliff face, but a few wandered off in other directions. Finding a group that looked newer than the others, I followed the prints.

It took another several hours to catch up with the small herd. I was so cold that I could hardly feel the sensation of my feet thudding upon the frozen earth, my hands shoved in my armpits and my mind full of curses for Talon for giving us such subpar gear. Overwatch, a group with unclear funding, had clearly done better than our own group despite our access to the world’s riches - everyone had been outfitted for the cold weather that the Himalayas had promised. More than likely they knew they had only two agents (now evidently three, plus an ape and a rust bucket) and had done the smart thing and tried to preserve them. Talon had bodies to spare, and so it makes sense that they’d not take too much care with their investments.

It always inevitably happens. There are those in an organisation one cares about, learns the names of, and the cannon fodder. Apparently after the failed attack in Chile, after the hacker using the girl’s obsessive stalking of us to trace her location, the Rat and I had been put somewhere between the two. We had gotten parachutes.

Shoving my thoughts aside, I remembered the herd I was watching. Three billies, four ewes, three kids. I coughed lightly, air seizing in my lungs again, and cursed silently when they looked up. I froze in place, hoping they hadn’t noticed me across the distance between us. Their ears flicked, and they went back to grazing on a patch of green.

I set down my pack and pulled out my hook. I ran a thumb over the curved tip, watching as the fabric caught on the edge slightly, and remembered.

 _Kunmanara_ had been a decent hunter, though far better with traps than I. Meanwhile I had been better at shooting than he, but my real strength lay elsewhere. I had been the only decent fisher in the whole unit. I remembered hooking a crocodile once, only to have _Kunmanara_ mimic a long dead nature enthusiast for a week.

The Rat was good with traps too. Another similarity, but then many were good at such things in the Never Never. Traps would be helpful now, but that’s just the way it is.

I slid my hand from the hook to the chain, swinging it around with practised ease.

I’d need either two of the ewes, or one of the billies. I knew that the orphaned kid would starve. Moreover, I’d not be able to hook two ewes before the herd fled.

The billy closest to me flicked his tail, an ear. He’d heard the chain. His head shot up, my arm curved round.

The goat’s shriek was loud and guttural as the hook tore into his shoulders, the tip poking through just under his neck. The rest of the herd bounded away as he staggered, front legs buckling and heavy horned head falling as he bleated and drooled in pain. I shivered and pulled the chain.

He bleated weakly as he tried to fight the pull. His hooves scrabbled for a few seconds before the frothing wound proved too much and he finally fell, bright red tongue lolling out. It made the reeling in easier, at least.

Amazingly he was still alive when I finally had him close enough to touch. His eyes rolled up at me in panic, whites showing. His breath shuddered in his ribs and through bloody bubbles in his nose. I’d seen this look before on the faces of men and women who had thought they could steal from me. As I had then, as I do now. I pulled my gun from my holster, holding it between his eyes. A flicker of pressure and an echoing bang.

All animals are the same when they die.

But I feel remorse when I kill a creature. I feel none when I kill a human.

The animals deserve pity for what we do to them; they have done nothing out of spite. Humans deserve no pity; everything with them is spiteful. That’s just the way it is.

Skinning the animal does not take long with my army knife, nor does preparing the pelt next to a small fire created from grass and the wrappers from earlier. I take off my mittens for this, revelling quietly in the sticky warmth even as it disgusts me. I look over to some crows who have gathered on the nearby rocks. I cannot eat the meat, but they can. As I cut a bit of the leg into strips for them, I consider the flesh between my fingers.

It has been a long time since I have eaten such things. But then it has also been a long time since I was certain what exactly it was that I was putting in my mouth. The bush was a harsh mistress; most turn to meat of any variety eventually. For my part, I subsist on witchetty grubs for protein. When was the last time I had eaten animal meat?

 _Kunmanara_ had put snags on the barbie some months before the Front, before the Omnium, between the unit and the end, chattering about things I can’t remember anymore. They were important at the time, they aren’t anymore. Such things happen. I remembered better the last conversation we’d had - how disapproving he had been of my decision to join the Front. How it had been a breaking point.

I remembered her description of his call, how he’d finally admitted that he needed help, how despite it all he had trusted me with his plea. I remembered the recording she’d given me, his words engrained into my mind from the number of times I’d replayed it before it, too, died. How her already tested patience was destroyed when I had failed in my simple task of finding a damn kid.

It was a pretext, her reason for hating me being losing the kid. She hadn’t agreed with my directions in the Front any more than she had in the unit. She rightfully blamed me for what our home now was. I don’t deserve her forgiveness, nor do I want it.

The sun had sunk low enough to kiss the ridges of the mountains by the time I’ve stripped the leg down to the bone. The crows around me caw for more, but I pack up the rest of the carcass. I let them have the skull though. They descend upon it like a cloud to pluck the eyes from the sockets and feast on the still pink tongue.

The fire burnt on, giving me a point of warmth, and I drew one half-thawed finger over the pelt. The skin was firmer now, still pliant enough to fold without difficulty. Fully curing it would take time, even with the brains smeared in, but with the cold weather the rot would at least take time to set in. With any luck, more time than I’d end up spending here.

I pulled out my knife again, paring down the bone until it was a small, sharp sliver before turning to the parachute. The actual strings went first, loathe as I am to remove the light yet sheltering fabric of the actual chute from my shoulders. Carefully I threaded the string through the sliver of bone, pulling the pelt from where I’d laid it.

The pelt didn't not give easily, but neither did I. Soon I had a passable coat, using all the fur the animal had turned in. It still barely covered my torso - truthfully it was a vest more than a coat. Using the parachute and cutting away a strip, I fashioned a pair of light sleeves. It was a stop gap measure, but two thin layers was still better than one.

I kicked the canteen from the ashes and into a pile of snow where it hissed, water inside sloshing loudly as I covered the fire with a layer of snow. Taking back up the canteen, I considered my options as I drank deeply.

Returning to the cliff was feasible - I knew the way and could see the associated mountain from where I was now. However I would not be able to completely climb the cliff before nightfall, nor would I be able to arrive there with enough daylight to build a shelter. Potentially I could simply create a shelter here and hunker down, but the snow here was thinner due to the wind and the sun. It would take time to gather enough snow to create the shelter. Perhaps closer to another mountain.

I turned to look around, and spied in the distance a plume of smoke. Well, that was more promising. Smoke meant fire. Which in turn meant either shelter or a source of light and warmth while I constructed my own.

I had just crested a hill when the radio crackled in my pack. The idiot was calling, possibly to briefly complain about the cold or discuss the girl again as he had intermittently during the afternoon. If this was him calling to gush over how cute she was when she blushed again, I was going to shut off my radio.

“What,” I answered upon finally digging the radio out.

“G’day cobber,” came the chipper reply. Rat went on to tell that he and the girl had reached the waypoint, the carnage they’d found. I suspected it was worse than he let on, but that didn’t matter as much as what was gotten out of it. Then he asked where I was.

I looked around. I could try and annoy him by saying that I was in the Himalayas. But knowing his sense of humour he’d only build off of it and thereby waste my time. “Don’t have a map,” I rumbled eventually.

“Ah, don’t worry mate! We’ve got one! We’re...” His voice was only mildly quieter as he turned to the girl, whose voice was almost inaudible. The Rat was audibly put out by her answer before asking whether I was up the cliff already. I heaved a sigh before pressing the button to give my response. Perhaps I should have risked the climb.

I heard him ask her what something was. After a pause, he chirped, “Thanks, love. ‘Kay, Roadhog, you heard her!”

I had not.

He remained blissfully ignorant of that fact as he went on to tell me of a temple north of the waypoint. Fifty kilometres, or about thirty miles. Around a day and a half hike, if we were in the Outback and if everything were flat. To complicate things, there was even no telling if the girl would even be able to keep up with the Rat over such a distance. Let her attempt to argue that one - my usual methods would not work over the radio.

The galah finished off by describing a plan to head off that direction. There was a brief pause, and I had just begun pressing the call button to say I’d heard the plan when his voice came again.

“By the by, my bird here’s curious ‘bout what carpet grubs are. Seems ta think that an old digger like you might be one. D’ya wanna tell her what they are?”

Evidently expecting them not to get distracted was too much to hope for. 

I bit my tongue in annoyance and sighed. “Don’t you two have other things to worry about?”

I had expected such behaviour from Junkrat. The girl indulging in such things was vaguely disappointing, even if she had actually already slept with the idiot.

“Aw, c’mon mate, she’s curious!”

“I am not,” she said, apparently pulling the radio closer to her face.

“Yeah you are!”

I don’t pray, but if I did this would possibly be the moment where I’d despair to some heavenly body. They were both idiots. Perhaps they did deserve each other.

“Children,” I grumbled, cutting through their antics before she had time to reply further to the Rat’s teasing.

The Rat closed off the call shortly after that, likely excited to have someone else cooking for him for once. Picky bastard would probably take over in the end anyway, like he always did.

The wind shifted, causing the sleeves of my makeshift coat to billow as the parachute caught on the breeze. Hm. Perhaps using the parachute had not been a worthwhile stop-gap measure after all. This was, however, only part of what I noticed with the wind now blowing over me. Upon it was carried the smell of the smoke. A familiar enough scent thanks to the Rat. Yet this time there were spices, foreign and mouthwatering, underlying it.

I continued toward the source, hoping that I would find it before night completely fell. After cresting the next hill saw a small hut next to a path cutting its way up the cliff face. The walls appeared to be made of wood and stone, and the slate roof was tall and slanted with a large overhang creating a sort of porch, upon which was a large satellite disk. At one corner of the building was a tall chimney belching forth smoke and the occasional flicker of fire. Around the hut was a small enclosure populated by domesticated goats who bleated curiously at me as I approached. One corner was marked by a pole with a variety of colourful flags, another with a tiny and beaten tin box.

A small window flickered with light. Suddenly a woman’s lined face appeared in the window, smiling and laughing at something within the hut. Her eyes turned to me out beyond the gate. She shouted something, never removing her eyes from me. The door swung open shortly after, causing one goat to fall over in surprise at the sudden bang.

An elderly man appeared at the door, armed with a shotgun. He must have been at least sixty years old; his seamed face a medley of both joy and despair, hair and beard more white than grey, body bowed and frail as he stood in the doorway. His simple white coat and thick felt trousers were worn and homemade.

The shotgun remained readied but pointed away as the man spoke, his voice loud and clear despite his age. I could not understand his words, and tilted my head with a shrug to attempt to convey this. He switched to two different languages before turning inside to say something in the first to the woman.

If that idiot who threw himself out of a plane after a root were here this would be much simpler.

She appeared over his shoulder, wiping her hands on a rag and looking at me curiously. “English,” she asked in a thick accent.

I nodded, grateful that there was at least one line of communication. She muttered something to the man, who shifted the shotgun idly as he responded.

The woman fixed me with a searching gaze. “Sorry, I am no good English. At English,” she said haltingly. “It is long time that I am able to talk it.” She paused, looking embarrassed. “What am you here for?”

I rubbed my arms and pointed to the chimney. The old man scoffed, bringing up the shotgun only for the woman to push it back down with a scolding phrase. He glared at me and barked something as he pointed to his toes. The woman laughed, hiding her smile behind her hand.

“He want you to touch toes. Want to make sure you not _ro-lang_.”

My head tilted in the side as I attempted. If they were going to withhold hospitality when it was proven that I cannot bend that way...

Seeing me bend at the waist, the man huffed another sentence and idly shifted the shotgun again. The woman smiled, throwing the rag over her shoulder and placing a hand lightly on his arm. “You excuse Bhuti. She think you danger. Is so?” Her eyes looked pointedly at the still bloody hook at my waist.

I blinked behind my mask. Slowly I reached up one hand, the other held placatively before me, and removed my pack. Dropping it to the ground before me, I pulled out the carcass of the goat and offered it to them. The man eyed it, looked at his own goats, and hefted the shotgun once more.

The woman frowned deeply. “You kill our goat?”

I shook my head, pointing over at the mountain from which I had come.

She followed the gesture and her eyebrows knit as she said something to the man. He growled in response before slowly approaching me. When he was within distance of the carcass, he shot out one hand and pulled it towards himself before returning to the hut. Handing the shotgun to the woman, he examined the carcass before declaring something in a loud tone and disappearing inside with it.

The woman barely spared him a glance as she stared me down. “You hunt; bharal make a good gift. We offer, uh, bed for night. Food, too, if hungry.”

My stomach growled loudly enough for her lips to quirk in mild amusement. Finally the shotgun was lowered completely. “Come,” she said, waving her hand invitingly. When I approached, she tutted, pointing to my hook and saying, “This stay here.”

I slowly removed the hook and laid it by the door. She nodded approvingly before entering the hut herself.

The door was almost too small for me to get through, but the interior of the hut was nicely decorated with richly dyed cloths and a variety of pelts and tools hanging from hooks on the walls. There were three rooms, from the looks of things - a main room with a low table and a cooking space, as well as two off to the side that had curtains over the doorways. In one corner of the main room was a small television and radio from which strains of music emanated. 

The man was already sitting at the table, grumbling angrily into a cup of steaming tea. Seeing this, the woman paused and asked him something. He replied shortly, gesturing to the kitchen space where the carcass was laying in wait before pouring me a cup and holding it out to me. I accepted it with a nod, and his lips turned up briefly before returning to a light scowl.

She went to the kitchen, but stopped short just before the stove. She turned back to me. “You eat bharal?”

I shook my head. She pursed her lips. “What of, ah...” She mimicked the sound of a pig, looking at my mask. She frowned when I shook my head again, sharper this time.

The man watched unblinkingly as she went on to mimic various animal sounds, only for me to shake my head each time. The man shook his head slightly and called out to her. Her hand lightly touched her forehead as she muttered a reply.

“You not eat animal,” she said finally, eyes shooting to me from under her hand. I nodded. Her hand fell as she shrugged apologetically, saying, “Sorry, we not have much... not animal. I attempt. Rice good?”

I nodded. She nodded in return before turning back to the stove. 

I lifted my mask enough to take a sip from the warm cup in my hand. The man watched me silently as the woman scuttered about in the kitchen. After a while, he struck up a conversation with her. The conversation was peppered lightly with English words, but I was still unable to follow. Finally, the man turned to me with the tea pot in hand.

“Tea,” he asked in a thicker accent than the woman. I nodded and offered my empty cup. He nodded gravely and intoned, “Tea” as he poured me another. He tapped the tea pot with one finger afterwards and said something in a different language. After a moment his scowl returned when I merely nodded in return.

Soon there was a bowl of rice laid before me, accompanied by grilled shoots of some sort. I bowed my head gratefully and accepted the simple chopsticks the man slid to me on the table. The woman joined us at the table and poured her own cup of tea.

“Bhuti and I already eat,” she said before taking a sip. “Will make, ah...” She paused to mime spooning something to her mouth with a loud slurp. “... from bharal in morning. Many thanks for bharal.”

I ate quickly, ravenous from the hike today and greedy for the warmth the simple meal gave me. Soon I felt comfortable enough to remove the coat I had made. Immediately upon removing it, the man’s hand touched it. He glanced up at me with a light frown, looking over my jumper in disapproval before turning to the woman. He spoke quietly, and she went off into one of the side rooms.

When she returned, she had a few pelts in hand, saying something to the man shortly and earning a short nod. “I make uh, shirt for you. Ready by morning, good shirt.” She took up the coat I had made, clucking her tongue. “No good, is make bad shirt from too new...” She trailed off again, looking somewhat cross before gesturing with the pelts in her other hand.

The man sat back and sipped his tea quietly. I bowed my head, touching my forehead as I did so.

After a moment, the man stood and said something to the woman. She chattered at him, and he responded lightly as he looked over at me. He repeated a phrase to both of us and disappeared with the shotgun into one of the side rooms.

The woman began clearing the table. “Son, Ngonga, he is off at university. We give you her room. Bhuti sleep, he is back from make gift to temples this day. Long ways.”

I hold up a hand as she passes me, and speak. “Temple?”

She nods and sets the dishes on the counter before going over to a small pack by the door and fishing out a map. “Temples,” she says, laying it out before me and pointing to two red dots. “We is here,” she continues, finger tapping a point between the two.

The temple to the north east was the one that the Rat and the girl must be heading to. I trace my finger down from it, marking mentally where the waypoint should be. Even with the promise of a coat, I would need to stop there for the food that was apparently stored there. This couple, for all their current hospitality, would not be able to offer me what I would need in the long run. 

I hum quietly in contemplation before turning to the woman again. “Do you got any extra maps? I don’t have one of my own.”

She looks confused, and I sigh. Truly, the Rat being here would make things much simpler. Plucking up a corner of the paper before me, I say, “Map. I don’t have one.”

“You not have map,” she asked, looking shocked. When I shake my head, she shouts something. The man answers this with another shout from the other room. They continue to shout at each other for a few minutes before she looks back at me. “Bhuti says he give you extra map and, uh... compass from when he is sherpa.” She pauses, then crinkles her nose as she adds, “He is too tired to be sherpa now. You not can ask for that. Sorry.” 

I nod gratefully regardless.

The room that I am shown to is small, with pictures of a young man with the old couple, all apparently taken by himself, tacked up on the walls. Other pictures are of the mountains, the temples, the goats, and an endless variety of sunrises. A small bookshelf stands next to the narrow bed, under which is a colourful carpet made of various rags tied together. I lay on my side on the bed.

It takes a while to fall asleep, as it usually does. During this time I contemplate the couple and their hospitality. Such things were not uncommon among people who live so distantly from each other, but the truth of the matter was that if they had had any reason to think I was a threat they would have had no qualms about shooting me. Even the woman, for all her welcoming warmth, would likely have fought tooth and nail had I attacked them.

The air of this truth had hovered unpleasantly around the table throughout dinner, but it seems that we had all politely ignored it. Their peaceful overtures were obvious - no one offers to make a coat for a stranger out of the goodness of their hearts. Their angle was to keep me from wanting to kill them. Everyone always has an angle.

Fortunately for them, it had worked. I had little desire to kill them.

Still, the thought was amusing. It would take time for them to be found, living in this remote area of the world. People would be surprised at the murder almost as much as they would be at their homestead.

Everyone always forgets that humans, the greedy and stubborn bastards, will live anywhere where they can build a house and have access to food, water, and fuel. This was a fact that I was all too aware of - my people had lived in the so-called inhospitable wastes of Australia long before the _piranpa_ had come to kill, enslave, steal, destroy. All in the name of ‘civilisation.’

They had not been content with their actions the first time, it seemed. First by deeming the desert where we had lived first suitable for a factory, which had drawn in many and remade the small town of Oodnadatta into a hub to rival Alice Springs. Then by neglecting the town when the Crisis began, leaving us to fend for ourselves as more focus was given to the heavily populated European and American circuses of the war. And finally by continuing in their assumption that the Outback was lifeless and inhospitable, and therefore perfect for the supposedly peaceful scrap heaps.

 _Kunmanara_ had not agreed with their assumptions any more than I had, but was desperate for peace. Another similarity with the Rat. But due to that desperate yearning, he had failed to see that the Front was trying to do good. He had been swept in by the lies and propaganda, saying that the violence was on both sides. I don’t know what he thought of the actual explosion.

I do know that most everyone thinks that the Omnics set it off themselves as part of a failed attack on the Front as we stormed their hold. Only she ever really knew the truth, being one of the few Front members who survived. I wonder if she had ever told _Kunmanara_. But, in the end, it doesn’t matter if she did or not. It’s over now; all that remains is simply pain, lies, and selfishness. The base line of humanity, all that we are, is readily visible in the fallout of my actions. I think of the couple, and how they would be just the same if forced to make difficult decisions.

Humans are self-indulgent and sadistic in ways that no animal ever can be. I had removed the mask as I donned my own. Better an animal than a human.

That’s just the way it is.

At some point, I drifted off. I woke the next morning to the smell of cooking rice and the sound of the couple talking with each other. The radio played quietly on in the background.

When I entered the main room, absently scratching my side, the man looked up from his cup of tea. He said a word, tapping the pot before pouring some for me. “Tea,” he said, then repeated the word.

I bowed my head and shrugged as apologetically as I could. There was no reason to try and learn whatever language they spoke. I would not be here long enough for the effort to be worth it. He scowled again before talking to the woman.

The woman attempted a few times to talk to me in English, but could do little beyond tell me that the coat, or shirt as she called it, was ready. She nodded proudly when I put it on after eating the rice she proffered. As she cleared the dish, the man pressed a map and compass into my hands. He said something, tapping the map and twisting his arm in a serpentine manner. Possibly they were directions, but all I could do was tilt my head in confusion once more.

When I pulled out the radio to check the battery level, the couple frowned again at the low levels before pulling out a similar model and handing the batteries from it to me. I tried to refuse this, but they pressed them into my hands repeatedly. Fine. If they wanted to cut off their communication with the outside world even further, let them do so.

Bowing as deeply as I could in thanks, I departed from the hut. The goats watched me collect my hook. The man and woman came to the porch wrapped in some blankets to wave me off.

I hefted my bag again. The coat they had given me was warm, and the rice filled my stomach nicely. I made my way for the pass I’d seen the day before, but paused to wave at them. Even if their motives had been self-preservation, it was still good to be polite. Who knows - I may need to make use of them again at some point.

The pass beyond the hut was narrow and rocky, too exposed to the wind and sun for there to be much snow built up yet. A few crows flew overhead, cawing to each other.

After a few minutes, one landed on a boulder I was passing with a bit of shiny metal in its beak. I paid it no mind. The bird trilled at me, hopping down before me to place the scrap at my feet. I continued to ignore it until I noticed the yellow paint on the underside.

The crow hopped back with a squawk as I leant down to pick up the piece. I recognised it - it was the barrel cover of Junkrat’s grenade launcher. Apparently he’d lost it. Imagining him without it was... odd. Like imagining a tree without any branches. I nodded at the black bird as I pocketed the tiny treasure. When I met back up with him he’d be glad for at least one piece to work with in the inevitable reconstruction process.

After another few feet, another crow landed before me with another scrap of metal. This, too, seemed to be from the grenade launcher. The trigger mechanism, by the looks of it. This crow only flinched mildly when I picked up the piece.

I turned it over in my hands, wondering how Junkrat would respond to the apparent destruction of something he referred to infrequently as his baby, and notice for the first time that it had an old dog tag welded to the underside of it. I laughed at the familiar octagonal shape - some poor fucker from the Australia Defence Force must have gotten on the wrong side of the Rat. When I paused to read it my heart surged suddenly in my chest.

_AS. 581933633. King, X. RC. B POS._

It couldn’t be. Could it?

Cursing myself suddenly for all those conversations where I had decided to let the matter lie, all those times that now were so obviously dancing around the truth, all those times when I had simply allowed myself to assume, I threw down my pack to search for the radio.

I tore open the flap of the bag. 

_“Yeah, nah, mate, ya wanna know the truth?_ I _ate me arm. Tasted like skinny pork. ‘S why I don’t like the stuff now, haha.”_

My hand dove in. 

_“Avs tells me it don’t bother him none, thanks to Lach’s fancy doovalacky, and I’ve been trying to keep it that way. I’ve even got a small joke with him ‘bout it - his first real tucker, and he managed it all even ‘fore he grew any teeth.”_

I felt around the bag, eyes seeing nothing save the memory of two far too similar smiles. 

_He stopped humming. “Hm? Whazzat? Oh, yeah. ‘S just an old tune what reminds me of... ah, someone I was close to.”_

I pulled out the radio.

 _Kunmanara_ singing the same tune. 

I felt like an idiot - this whole time and the kid had been right under my nose.

“Rat,” I said into the radio. I paused for a moment, before attempting again.

At last, he responded, though the sound of wind and static threatened to overtake his bouncy tone. “Ah, heya, Roadhog! Almost didn’t hear ya! _Haha!_ Me an’ my bird are driving right now. Well, rather, she’s driving. There was snowmobiles at the waypoint. Still, it’s takin’ a while. ‘Specially since _someone_ wants ta be careful on these slopes.”

He hadn’t mentioned snowmobiles. Even at a moderate speed, he must be pushing the limits of the radio signal by now. I took a few steps forward before remembering my pack on the ground and returning to it.

“Don’t worry, we saved you one! It’s - ” Static overtook his voice before it cut back in. “- an’ don’t mind ‘bout the dunny. Had a, uh, bit ‘a fun. Yeah. That’s it.” He paused, then laughed. “Oi, sweetheart, stuff blowing up’s always fun. In fact, why don’t I show ya sometime? Got lotsa stuff we can mess ‘round with.” His laughter was briefly audible before static set back in.

“Rat,” I ground out, hoping that the interference wasn’t too great. “Did you ever know anyone named... named Xavier?”

“Did I ever _what_ ,” he asked back over loud static, sounding like he was shouting into the radio. “Listen, mate, I can’t hear ya. If what you’re going on ‘bout’s important, soz, but seems like it’ll hafta wait ‘till we’re all at the temple. ‘Sides, uh, the juice on this thing’s low. ‘Cording ta ‘lil Miss Drive Safe here, I’ve gotta remember ta shut things off when I sleep, but ya know me. _Haha_! Can barely keep track of me own limbs most times!”

The idiot. “Rat,” I tried to continue, but only received static in return. The radio beeped at me, and when I pulled it away the screen read ‘out of range’.

I growled in anger before throwing the radio back in my pack. That idiot was the one whom I had been searching for, the one _Kunmanara_ had asked me to look after when he died. I shouldered the pack again, pulling out the map and walking up the path at a slightly faster pace. The crows cawed after me, following me with other bits of scrap that I ignored.

I was going to the waypoint.

I was going to get a snowmobile.

And when I found the Rat again, we were going to have a much needed talk.


	12. Interlude: Zeugma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA Wherein a Search Begin

The radio sparked with static and they faintly heard a voice from the speaker, speaking in English. A long phrase came through, though only the words Mei and Zenyatta made sense to him. The static sparked again as the wind howled outside and the goats bleated to each other.

“Zenyatta,” Raksha said. “That name sounds familiar.” She set down a pot of tea and two cups before joining him with her drop spindle.

Bhuti hummed, reaching over to turn the dial of the old H.A.M. radio. It had been a while since they’d used it and he was rather amazed that it still worked. “Perhaps it’s that metal priest they keep talking about at the temples.”

“Oh, you mean that Omnic? I wonder what they’re all the way at this end of the country.”

“Well, why don’t we find out,” he said with a shrug. He twisted the dial again, listening as the woman’s voice grew stronger.

He pressed the button when the voice was strongest and cleared his throat. “We copy you, madame,” he said in Nepalese. “May we request verification on whether that is Tekhartha Zenyatta with you?”

A few moments passed before the voice of an Omnic came on, also speaking in Nepalese. “Yes, this is Zenyatta. May I ask your names?” They supplied them, and the Omnic continued with “Greetings and peace be upon you. Might I ask if you speak Chinese?”

Bhuti kept a level tone as he asked the reason for the switch.

“My companion, Mei-Ling, does not speak Nepalese and I would not leave her out of the conversation.”

“He seems reasonable enough, despite asking for Chinese,” Raksha said quietly as she spun. “It will be good practice in any case. Besides, it is rude to leave someone out of a conversation and I’ll not be party to it twice in a day.”

Bhuti reached over to pat her on the arm as he switched to Chinese. “Might we ask you, venerable sir, why you are so far removed from Tengboche? I had heard that you would be staying there until the end of winter.”

“Ah, it is a small matter of protection,” Zenyatta replied, sounding almost human with the radio interference. “It appears that there are still those who do not wish to see the world begin to heal. Mei-Ling, should we ask about our friend?”

The voice of the woman, Mei-Ling, came back on. “Yes. Pardon me, sir, but have you seen any foreigners lately?”

“Oh, yes. Well, I believe he was foreign,” Raksha answered, hands moving deftly as she absently spun. “There was an odd man whom we gave hospitality to recently. He was only able to understand English, and was not at all talkative.”

“Oh?” Mei-Ling said, speaking quickly. “Would you please describe him?”

“A tall man,” Raksha said. “Well fed, strong, silvery-haired... He was wearing a badly made pelt coat and black winter trousers when he arrived, along a mask of some sort.”

Their eyes widened at the curse that left Mei-Ling’s mouth. “Was it in the shape of a pig,” she asked in a loud voice, causing the radio to crackle.

“Yes,” Bhuti replied. He glanced over questioningly at Raksha as he set his tea aside. “Is there something wrong?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Mei-Ling muttered. “That man is known as Roadhog. Was he there long?”

Raskha’s response was hesitant. “Only just for last night. He left less than an hour ago heading north.” She paused, then added with a hint of irony, “I take it he is not your friend, then?”

This time Zenyatta answered. “The person whom we are seeking is a young woman,” he said, going on to describe her to the elderly couple with some input from Mei-Ling. 

“She fell from a plane two evenings ago,” the Omnic continued, “along with a young man. We saw his parachute deploy, and so remain hopeful that she may be recovered. Currently we are at their probable landing site - Mei-Ling and Snowball recovered some pieces we believe belonged to the one known as Junkrat.”

Bhuti hummed, tapping his cup as Raksha asked whether there was anything they could do to help. Bhuti interrupted the negative reply by saying “I believe I saw something as I was returning from the northern temple yesterday morning. An explosion in a narrow gorge that is several kilometres to the east from here. I could go and investigate it, if you think it would help.”

“That sounds like it could be them,” Mei-Ling answered before cautioning them again to avoid going after either man. “All you need to know right now is that Junkrat is armed with explosives and is as dangerous as Roadhog is.”

“I _told_ you something was off about him,” Bhuti whispered in Nepalese before replying to the radio. “Would it be helpful, then, if I were to give you the exact direction the masked man took and our coordinates? If he is going to meet up with this Junkrat perhaps having an idea of his path would be of use.”

“It would be appreciated,” replied Zenyatta, who thanked him when it was supplied.

“Thank you for your time,” Mei-Ling said. After a moment, she hastily added “If you see Roadhog, the masked man, again, please contact us - he is a known terrorist and we are equipped to be able to stop him.”

Raskha spun one handed for a moment as she wrote down the frequency the two would be using. The conversation ended soon afterwards, leaving the couple in a familiar and comfortable silence.

—

Zenyatta looked up from the radio to see Mei biting her lip and all but balling up the map in her hands. “There is no point in worrying,” he said. “We now have knowledge of a heading and confirmation of the direction they were going in, should this truly have been their landing point.”

“We only know of the fact that Junkrat may have caused an explosion yesterday morning,” Mei said as she nervously paced back and forth in the snow, releasing one hand to gesture about with. “And that those are his grenades under that outcropping there. And that Snowball found some pieces of wire by that rock. What we don’t know is if he’s done anything to her, or if she’s injured, or if she’s frozen to death...”

“You yourself said that she was resourceful,” Zenyatta pointed out calmly as he scanned the horizon. “And if she is dead then that is what will have come to pass. And we would mourn.”

Mei spun toward him swiftly. “You don’t know her,” she spat, nervous anger coursing through her. “You have no reason to care.”

“Though our paths did not cross until recently,” the Omnic replied, “her life has still touched mine. I would mourn her passing were it to occur. But there is no reason to waste energy worrying over something that is still uncertain.” He turned gently to look at her. “The sooner we find her, the sooner we will know whether or not to mourn.”

Mei huffed but returned to searching the map regardless. “I know, I know. Sorry for snapping at you,” she said as she marked down the coordinates of the couple. “You’re right. Worrying won’t make our actions better. It can only delay them. But I hope that this time I won’t be too late.”

Zenyatta tilted his head at her questioningly as she traced over the map but said nothing.

Finally she pointed her hand towards the chasm. “On the other side the altitude will be higher according to the map,” she said. “I’ll try calling Lena again to see whether she’s found a repair shop once we reach it.”

Folding his hands before him meditatively, Zenyatta noted “It is also possible that we may gain new insight as to the condition of our friend once we reach the other side of the ravine.”

Mei stowed the map and nodded, smiling with determination as Snowball flew ahead. “Only one way to find out.”


	13. Chapter Seven: Day Two, Midday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA Snowmobile Shenanigans

You could feel the stress slowly bleed away as you began to enjoy the novelty of driving a snowmobile. The wind buffeted you as the engine hummed away between your legs, and you felt a sense of wonderstruck peace as you looked out to see the jagged slopes move by faster. The sun played sprightly over the frozen peaks as you drove, occasionally striking a stone or patch of ice and shining brilliantly. All that you smelled was the crisp, cold air that rushed towards you and filled your lungs with a refreshing coolness.

It was beautiful and you couldn’t resist the growing awed smile on your face.

Behind you Jamison shifted restlessly, humming to himself and breaking you out of your reawakened rapture.

“Are you humming another song from _Pirates of Penzance_ ,” you asked, turning your head slightly towards him, still at ease due to the beauty of the environs.

He stiffened, staring at your face and the remnants of your smile for a moment. Then your words caught up with him, causing him to smile thinly. “Might be,” he said with a barely suppressed giggle as he turned to speak into your ear. “But you’ve been on and on ‘bout how ya don’t know the musical. So now I’m right curious howzit you keep recognising it.”

Your jaw clenched in thought as you steered around a throng of trees. “Alright,” you said at length. “I’ll admit it - I lied to you. I know the musical. It’s, uh, actually one of my favorites.”

Jamison’s victoriously braying laugh caused you to jerk away. “I fucking _knew_ it,” he crowed. “You’re a fucking liar. Oh, wait, does that mean our truce is broke?” His arms tightened around you and drew you deeper against him, one hand drifting a touch below your belly button. “ ‘Cause, _haha_ , if so, there are a few games I’d _love_ ta play with ya.”

You felt your teeth grind against each other uncomfortably. “No,” you ground out as you pulled yourself forward on the seat again and pushed his hand away. “I said I didn’t know the musical before the truce, if you’ll remember.”

His hand returned to the comparatively chaste position from before. “Did you,” he questioned, sounding confused. “Coulda sworn you said it after.”

“No, I’m pretty sure it happened before,” you said confidently. 

You took a glance up the mountain next to you and charted a zig-zagging path mentally as you tried to gauge the solidity of the snow. You had never driven a snowmobile before, and didn’t want to take any chances with it. Besides, how far even _was_ fifty kilometres? You didn’t know; the map hadn’t had the conversion to Imperial. But it didn’t seem like it could be that far. If everything were flat, of course.

“Well if ya say so,” Jamison said in a quieter voice. You drove on for a few minutes in silence before he suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, fuck me, you are right. Soz, babe.”

“You’ve got an awful lot of pet names for someone you don’t know that well,” you remarked with a half smile as you turned to begin looping back for the first zag.

You could feel his shrug as he said, “Eh, so I like giving folks nicknames. So what? ‘Sides, I _do_ know you.”

“Really,” you drawled. “And how is that I wonder. This _is_ the longest we’ve ever spent together.”

Jamison’s fingers drummed the back of his hand as he spoke. “Well, that file Lady Shadow lifted’s got all sorts of stuff on ya, for one.”

Hello, morbid curiosity. “Such as?”

Jamison laughed again before listing the names of your emergency contacts, your birthday, the name of the town you grew up in, and where you had studied in the past. “Oh, _haha_ , and all your skills,” he said as his left leg bounced restlessly next to you. “Can’t forget those.”

Well. That was much more than you had expected all at once, despite having been warned by Winston several times of all the information Talon now had on you. The warning bells were still there, but you calmed yourself by recalling all the information you’d dug up on the Junkers (specifically Jamison) in the process of tracking them across the globe. Scant information, to be fair, but information nonetheless.

If he were to be considered a stalker, then you should be too. It was only fair.

Besides, until you were out of Nepal you had to allow him at least a _little_ bit of trust. Add in the fact that he was at least passably attractive, at times hilarious, obviously interested in you, and a surprisingly skilled kisser. The lattermost idea made you wonder even more than before how he’d actually be in bed... and it was hard to resist...

Shit. You really would need to see a psychologist at the end of all this, wouldn’t you. Bad brain, bad. No active consideration of internationally recognised terrorists.

You shook your head to clear these thoughts as you straightened out the course. “So you know a list of places I’ve been and things I can do,” you replied as cooly as possible, “and because of that you think you know me well enough to give me cutesy names.”

His leg froze for a moment before jittering up and down more restlessly. 

“Well, yeah, people in the movies always do that when they like someone. _Haha_. And I thought I’d already said that I liked ya. The file only gave me more things to like ‘bout ya,” he said, fingers starting to drum a rhythmless beat on your coat. “ ‘Cause, yanno, it’s like they say! Uh... Hey, darl, what’s that phrase ‘bout first sight ‘n all that? ‘Course, not sure it’s really applicable, seeing how’s it started back when you was just a spunky sheila on the telly and only really started growing once we played your game back in Dublin...”

Simultaneously it felt like you had run an ice cube down your spine and swallowed a bunch of butterflies. _Crap_ was the only word running through your head, along with the phrase “oh my God” in admittedly both a negative and positive light. Maybe he didn’t _just_ want to fuck you. 

Your face felt hot enough to melt ice with, and you were vaguely surprised it wasn’t fogging up your snow goggles. “I don’t remember,” you stammered out.

Jamison seemed more preoccupied with looking around than with what you had said. “Eh, I suppose we’ll just have ta ask someone, then,” he said absently as he craned about. “But hey, why’re we turning around? I thought you wanted to get _away_ from the stiffs.”

Remembering the dead eyes again made you shiver unpleasantly, and you grasped the familiar discomfort in favour of examining the new feelings ricocheting through you. 

“I do, I really fucking do,” you said vehemently. Jamison hummed as you took a deep breath and continued with, “But I’m not going back there. I’m going up this mountain here.”

Jamison turned to look at the mountain you jerked your head towards. 

He hummed again, then laughed loudly before bending down to speak in your ear. “Well wouldn’t it be faster to just go straight up it then? There aren’t any trees or rocks what I can see that way,” he said, helpfully pointing to the obvious bare expanse that you had noticed earlier.

“Wow, really,” you said flatly. “I would _never_ have seen that on my own. Thank you _so_ much, Jamison.”

He beamed. “You’re welcome.”

“I was being sarcastic,” you said, snickering softly at the silence that followed.

Then, with another braying laugh, he drawled, “Well I was only trying to help, darl. Strewth.” Turning slightly, you caught the tail end of his playful smirk. “Well then why the fuck aren’t we going straight up?”

You shrugged and began to loop back around. “Because we have to drive safely. I don’t know snowmobiles very well, but I’ve heard that they can be -”

“Driving safe’s for wowsers,” Jamison interrupted, leaning into you heavily as he sighed discontentedly. “This is _boring_. Can’t we, I dunno, go just a little bit faster?”

You grunted under his weight, neck craning uncomfortably as you tried to keep an eye on the path ahead. “We’re already going plenty fast,” you said. “Look, the speedometer even says we’re going forty kilometers an hour. However fast that is.”

Jamison sighed again and buried his nose into your neck. “S’not fast, ya silly yank,” he grumbled as he nosed his way past your hood and through the layers of your scarf. “Least it don’t sound it. I mean, s’not even seventy k’s. What’s the fastest you’ve ever gone, anyway?”

“I don’t usually test to see how fast I can go. I drive sanely.” You gasped slightly as his cold nose brushed against your neck, but he seemed content to just nestle his face into the warmth for the time being.

His voice was muffled by the fluffy material, but you still heard him when he said, “Well just you wait ‘till I drive. I’m always going a hundred k’s at least. Get us ta the temple in no time, unlike you with _your_ bloody driving.”

You let out a short snort and shook your head at his boasts. “My driving will get us to the temple in one piece though, unlike your _crazy_ driving.”

Giggling, his leg took to bouncing again. After a moment, he nestled his face more firmly into your neck, dropping his arms to loop them about your hips. You opened your mouth to continue the conversation. The only thing to come out of it, however, was a small squeak in surprise when he gave you a tiny nip. You elbowed him away sharply and clapped your hand over the spot as he snickered.

“Why did you _do_ that,” you spat, twisting slightly to glare at him again as the snowmobile slowed to a stop without your hand on the throttle.

Jamison just smiled smugly and gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Eh, dunno. Bored.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you stared at him flatly. For his part, Jamison merely giggled again and said, “Aw, c’mon, darl, you know I like messing with ya.”

You could not believe this man. He was a literal _child_. As you weighed the potential consequences of shoving him off into the snow, you couldn’t resist asking “Do you always mess with people this way?”

He chuckled and tucked you under his chin, holding you close to his shaking frame.

“... Are you going to answer my question,” you said, staring out at a copse of trees stubbornly clinging to the side of the mountain.

Jamison hummed tunelessly, then said, “Nope,” with a pop. Then he giggled again.

You turned to face forward again, leaving him pressed fully against your back as his arms curved around your lower ribs. “Well, if we’re done here,” you said as you grabbed the handles again.

And with a small jerk the snowmobile was moving forward once more. Junkrat’s giggle quickly morphed into a groan when you maintained the same speed you had had earlier.

“Fuck me,” he groused. “Can’t you go faster? This is fucking boring as _shit_. Roadhog never drives this slow.”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, there’s a veritable cornucopia of nature’s wonders you could watch as we go safely along and live to drive recklessly another day.”

Jamison’s laugh was slow and stilted. “I have no idea what you just said.”

You laughed yourself, unable to keep the mean-spirited amusement at bay. “Wonderful,” you drawled. “Now _you_ know how it feels.”

His chin tapped down onto the top of your head as he draped himself over you again. “Izzat another complaint ‘bout the strine,” he questioned in a lilting tone, leaving you to resist a shiver as you felt the vibrations of his voice through your back.

“Perhaps,” you returned.

“Well the offer ta teach ya still stands, love,” Jamison said. “Just gotta remember ta ask whenever it is I use it.” 

With that, the two of you lapsed into silence. Some tiny part of you cried out, wanting to feel the vibrations of his voice again. Fortunately for that idiotic part of yourself, which you were definitely _not_ going to purposefully entertain, Jamison was not a man to keep quiet for long.

“Still say this is boring as shit,” he whined, his loud voice audible even with him speaking over your head. With a giggle he said, “Why don’t you teach me more ‘bout Shakespeare, darl? At least that way I can imagine the plays.”

You considered this. “I could, but wouldn’t you just get bored again anyway?”

“Oh fuck, you’re right,” he replied after a pause. “It’d be more fun ta see you act ‘em out, playing different all the folks all by yourself. Be just like that one time...”

He trailed off, sounding wistful and leaving you thinking of ways to get him to not be bored. Obviously the only reason was that keeping him from being bored would keep him from pressing his luck with your current seating arrangement. This was wholly a separate thing from you wanting to feel the vibrations of his voice again.

How to do so, though?

“Oh, wait, I have an idea,” you said abruptly, causing him to jolt out of whatever reverie he had fallen into. “Why don’t we play twenty questions?”

Jamison laughed, moving his chin to your neglected shoulder as he said, “To guess what’s what when I say shit like sunnies and thongs, and when you say shit like... uh, very table corny cup here?”

You couldn’t resist it. You laughed as well and turned to look at him in amusement. “Cornucopia,” you managed to get out. “It means a large amount, an excess. And veritable means true, genuine.”

He was staring at you with wide eyes, pupils blown as his gaze flickered between your eyes and the quirk to your lips. He leant in closer, a small smile on his own face, and at the last second turned and said into your ear, “Sunnies and thongs’re sunglasses and, uh... Oh, right. Flip flops.”

You snorted and faced forward again. “Why don’t we just do that for when we have linguistic difficulties?”

“Linguistic meaning...”

“Language.”

His laughter started softly but built quickly as he hugged you tighter. “Oh, that’s a fucking brilliant idea, love,” he said. “I suppose I should give something in return, then, for linguistic. Uh, lessee... Arvo’s afternoon.”

You grinned into the wind, though this lightened feeling soon died down when you took stock of your surroundings. This pass was going to take longer to zig zag up than you’d thought if you stayed at your current angle. Still, better safe than sorry. 

Jamison was already growing bored again though. He was humming again, and his fingers starting to fiddle with various zippers and ties within as if they were switches. You recognised this tune as well; it was the opening tune of _The Court Jester_. How did he even _know_ of that film? It was _ancient_. Your friends didn’t even know that film. The gap between what he knew of you and what you actually knew of him became ever more clear. 

Realising all this had reminded you of your plan, however.

“That works well for our language issues,” you said. “But it wasn’t what I meant by twenty questions.”

Jamison was picking at one of the zippers on his trouser legs when you spoke and paused for only a second in acknowledgement. “Well what’re the rules then,” he asked, sounding like he was barely holding back another sigh of boredom.

“An exchange of twenty questions on a topic,” you replied, starting to loop back again and growing slightly annoyed with how long climbing the mountain was taking. “You ask me one and I ask you one, and we answer truthfully.”

“And what if we don’t,” he said, fingers drumming just above your left knee. “Would the asker be able to choose a punishment?”

His chin was digging into your shoulder a tad more strongly now. You shifted under it and said, “I suppose that’s fair. But nothing that’s sexual.”

“Well that just takes all the fun out of punishments,” he muttered, attempting to be quiet and failing miserably.

Your face flushed and you pulled yourself out of his grip slightly. “Punishments aren’t supposed to be fun, Jamison.” You fought to keep your voice even as his hands gripped your hips. “That’s why they’re called punishments.”

He laughed, his hands trembling where they sat. “And I s’pose you think punishments aren’t meant to be enjoyable either.”

“What,” you asked, frowning. “What the hell kind of punishments are you even thinking of?”

Jamison laughed again. “Is that your first question?”

No. You cursed silently - somehow you had already lost control of the conversation. And yet... you were curious. Morbidly so. Damn your curiosity. “Yes,” you said haltingly. “Are you into that kind of stuff?”

“I thought this was s’posed to be an _exchange_ of questions,” he said. “Not just ‘ask the cripple what he’s gotten off to before.’ ” Giggling, he leant down to whisper in your ear as his hands slid across your belly once more. “What ‘bout you, darl? Are you into that kinda stuff? Ya seemed to like it when I grabbed you by the hair earlier.”

Your face burned, unsure of how to handle this rapidly unravelling situation. When you stammered over your reply, Jamison pulled you closer and clucked his tongue. “You’re the one who said honest answers, doll,” he chided. “C’mon, tell me. D’ya like it when someone knows what they want and just shoots right to it? Holds ya down, splits you open, makes you scream and beg...” 

He hummed deeply, one hand falling dangerously close to your crotch even as your own shot to stop it. “Aw, fuck. C’mon, love, I wanna know, I _need_ ta know,” he muttered against your ear as he giggled and groaned, pressing you back into his body firmly. “D’ya know how many times I imagined how it’d be? Me coming home to you, you welcoming me with that brilliant smile o’ yours, naked as a jay but for the jewels... Oh, _fuck_ , and then me just rooting you again and again while you beg for more...”

You shouldered him, throwing your body weight into it and sending him flying off of the snowmobile with a yelp. Fighting against a deep blush and a growing throb between your legs, you shouted “Way too far, dude,” as you drove the snowmobile to a stop some meters away. “Stick some snow down your damn pants and calm the fuck down.”

Jamison laughed hysterically as he writhed on his stomach in the snow, and hissing as one hand disappeared beneath him. “Holy goddamn fuck, that’s cold,” he yelled after a moment, jumping back slightly. “Ah, shit, fuck, that fucking _hurts_.” He rolled onto his back, cupping both hands over his crotch as he groaned. “ _Ooh_ , that was a bad idea...”

Your blush didn’t lighten at all despite his pitiful display. “The fuck, dude,” you shouted. “I didn’t expect you to actually listen to me.”

“I didn’t,” he shouted in return, staggering back to a standing position and facing away from you as he fiddled with his trousers. “Ended up the same way, though. Goddamn it, fuck, I _hate the snow!_ ” His hands dropped to his sides in tight fists as he kicked at the offending material. “Fucking Satan’s jizz, it is.”

“You did that to yourself,” you pointed out as he stalked back to the snowmobile. “Now, are you going to behave so that we can continue on our way without any further incidents?”

Jamison’s golden hazel eyes were so dark they looked brown as he stared at you. Drawing in a shaky breath, he chuckled and said “I’ll be on me best behaviour.” He snickered, then held one hand to his heart and the other flat in the air. “Scout’s honour.”

You glared at him. “You’re not a Scout.”

“Well I’d’ve said ‘Junker’s honour’ but I didn’t think you’d take it,” he replied with a grin as he gingerly slid into place behind you once more.

Sniffing, you said, “Yeah, well, you... You’d be correct.”

Damn it.

Jamison guffawed loudly as he gripped the seat of the snowmobile, leaning back and resting his head on one shoulder as he smiled at you. “See, darl, I _do_ know ya. So’s I can use all the pet names I want,” he said smugly.

“Even with that file, I’m not sure _how_ it is you think you know me so well,” you said as you prepared to drive again. “But for right now -”

He interrupted you, his snickers growing loud enough to cut through your words. “You’re not that hard a book ta read, darl. Bit difficult sometimes, sometimes downright fucking confusing as shit... Ok, so you’re a bit of a hard read. A bit. _But_ I do know which buttons get what reactions, so it’s all the same, innit?”

“So your ‘messing’ with me was really just figuring out what gets what reaction, with the ultimate goal of getting into my head,” you griped. Jamison laughed again, evidently denying it with a hum and shake of his head as his darkened eyes dragged over you. Rolling your eyes, you pressed the throttle lightly.

The snowmobile shot forward slightly with a harsh jerk. You were surprised to see that he didn’t move with the sudden shift. He _should_ have slid slightly back on the seat, if not landed on his ass in the snow. 

“Can you ride like that,” you asked.

His gaze shot back to your face as he made a questioning noise. “Wazzat?” You repeated your question, this time gesturing to his more than slightly splayed out position. “Oh, right. Yeah, I can ride like this,” he said lightly.

“Okay then,” you said as you started driving again. “You can hold on to me if you need to, you know.”

Jamison stared at you blankly, eyes growing impossibly darker. “Sweetheart,” he said in a rather gravelly voice, “are you inviting me ta touch ya.”

You felt your heart speed up again. “No,” you said quickly. “I’d just rather not have to stop driving every ten minutes when you fall off, that’s all.”

A toothy grin broke out on his face as he caught his lower lip between his canines. “Aw, how cute, you’re worried ‘bout me.” He laughed before continuing. “But no worries, darl. I’m stronger ‘n I look. I won’t fall off the back of the fancy ringdinger. ‘Sides, I think having my hands on you right now would end up stopping your driving for a _little_ more’n just ten minutes.”

Your back straightened at that as you stared at the white expanse before you. You had hoped that his misadventure with the snow had distracted him enough from... _that_. Clearly it was just too much to hope for.

“Okay, change of topic,” you declared loudly, earning another snicker from the man behind you. “Back to the rules for our game of twenty questions.”

Jamison growled in the back of his throat. “Back to this then, are we?”

You sniffed, suddenly a bit unsure of your plan. “Yeah. It’ll pass the time.”

He made a frustrated noise and his leg started jumping up and down again. “Oh, alright, _fine._ Have it your way, then,” he said. “Lessee, we’ve got the rules of exchanging questions on a topic, can’t _lie_ for the answer, and no fun punishments allowed when ya _do_ lie. Despite it _s’posedly_ being whatever the punisher _wants_ it ta be.”

You grit your teeth and grinned over your shoulder at him. “Yep. And to that I’m gonna go ahead and add ‘no directly sexual questions.’ ”

The blond caterpillars that Jamison probably called eyebrows arched over his forehead. “Righto,” he said, looking even more unenthused now. “Guess I’ll just have ta find out what gets ya hot ‘n bothered other ways.”

“Keep dreaming, dude.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he laughed. “I will.”

You chose the first topic. It was oddly harder to decide what to go with than you had expected; after all, you knew next to nothing about the man’s past, beyond the fact he had an uncle at some point. Taking that, you decided on the old but time tested topic of family.

Jamison sucked his teeth as soon as you got out the first syllable. “Shit, sheila, you really know how ta choose ‘em. I already know all of your answers for this.”

“Well then... get a bit creative about your questions,” you said. He mimicked you mockingly not a second later, leaving you to wince internally. Perhaps this wasn’t going to go the way you’d planned after all. 

The cagey bastard was _possibly_ too intelligent to fall for your ploy to find out more about his past.

You asked about his siblings; he’d almost had one, was his answer. He moved on before you could try to press for more details and asked for your favourite family member. You asked if he had any cousins.

“Yeah, them chicks what my dear old Aunt Emu hatched last summer,” he drawled.

“That counts as a lie, I think,” you said.

“Ooh, whatcha gonna do, sheila,” he returned snottily. “Shove me in the snow again?”

You huffed. “No. Instead I’m... I’m going to get to ask you two questions and you have to answer them.”

“Right, well the answer is _yes_. The curtains _do_ match the carpet. ‘Cept for the slight singe, ‘course... Though there that one time when I was in my starkers and ended up having ta ‘splode the bloke. Little thieving fuckwit, he was. Real fucking glad it was just the carpet, though, and not anything what’s important.”

Jamison’s laugh was loud as you visibly fumed and tried to keep from snapping at him. “No,” you ground out. “The questions I’m going to ask are was Uncle Zay your mother’s brother or your father’s brother?”

“Izzat your two questions there,” he asked after a moment. You shook your head, saying it counted as one. He snickered, shaking his head ruefully. “Neither,” he said.

You balked, looking over your shoulder to ask if the man was even related to him. Jamison simply gave a close-mouthed grin and confirmed that Uncle Zay was a blood relative.

“So which side is he on,” you pressed.

“Oi, hang on, ya nosy bastard, you’ve already _got_ your two questions,” Jamison shot back. “And for my next question, I’m gonna have ta go with something what’s been on my mind. How long can you hold your breath?”

Your mind blanked, unable to guess why he was suddenly asking about that. “Well no one ever timed it, but I can swim underwater from one end of a pool to the other and back without coming up for air.”

“Oh?” He sounded intrigued. “Does that mean you’ve got good lungs, then? I mean, I have no idea in this situation, darl, and I actually really wanna fucking know the answer here.”

You shrugged. “I do believe it’s my turn to ask a question. Do you know how to swim?”

You could feel his eyes boring into the back of your head. “Do I know how ta swim,” he said. “Me. The manky one-legged bastard from the back o’Bourke. Cripes, I dunno. Seems I’m gonna hafta say... no.”

And with that the topic shifted to sports and stayed there once he brought up cricket and rugby. Neither sport was popular in the States, and (if not for his impassioned explanations and sudden ability to give two shits about rules) you would have thought they were just elaborate hoaxes.

Throughout all of this, you steadily drove at the grand speed of 40 kilometres an hour in an increasingly small zig zag up the slope. You were more than ready at any minute to just turn and gun straight up it. However the presence of Jamison destroyed any potential plans to do so, purely out of a desire to spite his apparent speed demon ways.

Your own levels of boredom were starting to win over the spite, though, and you hoped that he hadn’t noticed.

He had moved closer again, one hand resting on your shoulder as he gestured with the other in an attempt to outline the rules of cricket in front of you.

“Yeah, no,” he was saying, “see, there’s the eleven players and two wickets. The opposing team’s goal is ta land a hit on the wicket with the defending team trying ta keep that from happening so’s they can get a run and get the batter out. And the way they do that is by getting the batter ta stand on the pitch, in front’a the wicket, and then the opposing team has someone throw the ball, that’s the - ”

You hummed and nodded. “What’s a wicket,” you asked innocently.

“I’ve already _told_ ,” he started, cutting himself off with a groan when you snickered. “I think you’re messing with me, darl.”

“What, me?” Your lips twitched in amusement. “No. Never.”

Both his hands were now clutching your shoulders as he laughed, his head resting against the back of your own. “Are ya sure you don’t like me, darl,” he said through his chuckles. “ ‘Cause I’m fucking loving this banter we’ve got going.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “I have a lot of reasons to not like you,” you said.

“And I have plenty of reasons not ta like you, darl, if ya count all those ruined heists and bullet wounds as separate reasons,” he replied. He slid his hands down to your elbows as he leant into you once more. “But you’re also the reason why me life’s much improved of late, what with the meals on the reg with Talon, the money, the ‘bility ta make use of my bombs whenevs I want and not hafta worry ‘bout coppers for it. ‘S like what I said this morning, I think.” 

He chuckled, laying his cheek agains your shoulder as he slid his arms up to link them loosely over yours. “Don’t know why ya keep holding the fact Hog and I got ya out of that basement against us,” he murmured. “Ain’t ya having fun with ‘em Overwatch bastards? You could always join us if not, yanno. Hog and I always have fucking bonzer missions.”

“You burned down the archive in Dublin,” you said, temper flaring slightly. “I don’t think that’s entirely forgivable.”

Jamison scoffed, shaking his head slightly. “I didn’t do that. Well, not on purpose.” He sighed. “I _tried_ to put it out, but then I told Hog that you was, _heh_ , a bit tied up at the moment and next I knew he was rushing off ta try with a mind ta end ya ‘fore you could cause any more trouble.” He paused, and then in a rather mournful tone asked, “Do ya honestly mean ta tell me that you’d rather have a buncha papers in a vault instead’a your life?”

You hadn’t considered that. Well fuck. If that question wasn’t the catch twenty-two of academics, especially in the age of digitalisation.

You were starting to formulate a response when you heard some sort of noise from Jamison’s bag. “I think something just went off in your bag,” you said, deciding to let the other topic go for now.

Never had you seen him move so quickly as his hands dove into the pack, digging through it while muttering angrily about fuzes and throwing grenades left and right (some of which landed safely in the snow and others of which bounced down the slope to explode in your wake).

“Rat,” said the bag.

Jamison let out a little squeal of relief. “Oh, thank _fuck_ , it’s just Roadhog,” he said as he grabbed the radio with a laugh. “Shit, this thing is low on battery.”

“You have to remember to shut things off when you sleep,” you said.

“Remind me tonight, darl, and I’ll make sure to do so,” he said quickly as he pressed the button. “Ah, heya, Roadhog! Almost didn’t hear ya!”

He laughed, curling one arm around your waist as he rested the other on your shoulder for support as he held the radio to his face. “Me an’ my bird are driving right now. Well, rather, she’s driving. There was snowmobiles at the waypoint.”

You jerked your shoulder under the pressure of his arm, causing him to shift to rest his cheek against yours. “Still, it’s taking a while,” he continued. “ ‘Specially since _someone_ wants ta be careful on these slopes.”

You rolled your eyes as he went on. “Don’t worry, we saved you one! It’s the last one on the left. Or was it the right?”

“It was the right,” you said, earning a smile and a peck on the cheek.

“Thanks, love. Yeah, last on the right. Oh, right, it’s the one what’s furthest from the corpses. Don’t mind ‘bout them,” he said in a voice that struck you as far too cheerful for talking about dead people. “It weren’t us, but some crazy Russian lady. Place’s all shot ta hell. Left ya a note explaining things on the door of the storage room. Oh, an’ don’t mind ‘bout the dunny. Had a, uh, bit ‘a fun. Yeah, that’s it.”

You made a dismissive noise as he smiled zanily, remembering your feelings about the archives, and said, “Stuff blowing up can’t be _that_ fun.”

Jamison laughed, sounding delighted. “Oi, sweetheart, stuff blowing up’s always fun. In fact, why don’t I show ya sometime?” His arm around your waist tightened briefly as he grinned at you. “Got lotsa stuff we can mess ‘round with.”

His laughter was becoming far too familiar a noise. “Like those bombs you apparently have hidden somewhere on your person?”

Jamison smiled and stuck his tongue out at you. “There’s lotsa stuff on me that’s likely to ‘splode if you look for ‘em.”

You grimaced at his more than crude innuendo, but the radio spoke next. 

“Rat.” Roadhog’s voice was as terse as you’d ever heard it and barely audible over the wind and static, but Jamison seemed to grow more serious suddenly. “Did you - ” Static swallowed the rest of whatever he said.

“Did I what,” Jamison asked in reply, shouting into the radio and causing you to reel sideways, jerking the handles of the snowmobile. You straightened out in time to barely avoid a rock.

This hurdle overcome, you shot the deafeningly loud man a glare. 

Jamison noticed none of this and continued to shout into the receiver when nothing but static answered. “Listen, mate, I can’t hear ya. If what you’re going on ‘bout’s important, soz, but seems like it’ll hafta wait ‘till we’re all at the temple.”

He paused and quieted ever so slightly when he at last noticed you glaring at him. “ ‘Sides, uh, the juice on this thing’s low. ‘Cording ta ‘lil Miss Drive Safe here, I’ve gotta remember ta shut things off when I sleep, but ya know me.” He laughed, pulling you back to the centre of the seat with an apologetic smile. “Can barely keep track of me own limbs!”

“Anyway, mate,” he said, his metal hand moving to your shoulder as he leant back, away from your ear, and continued to speak loudly into the radio. “I’m glad ta hear you’ve not carked it yet. Not _entirely_ sure how I’d be able ta get revenge on a mountain range or winter itself, but I’d fucking attempt the shit out of it.”

“You’d be willing to try and blow up a weather pattern for your friend,” you asked, incredulous.

Jamison shrugged. “Well, yeah. I mean, I fought Zorro when I thought he’d killed you. I’ll attempt anything ta settle scores when people I like are involved.”

Once again, curiosity rose within you as you remembered your fearful distrust of the man in the pig mask. “So what if Roadhog lied and _does_ try to kill me? What would you do then?”

You hissed slightly as his metal fingers suddenly became a vice. You turned to shout at him and paused when you saw the way his eyes had glazed over. “He said he wouldn’t,” he snarled, hand shaking around the radio. “I told him not to. Got enough ta hafta plan for as is...”

You weren’t entirely sure what you had expected in response to the question. What all did he have to plan for that his friend being potentially murderous made him so angry? Especially as there was so much evidence that the masked giant was, in fact, really fucking murderous?

Ignoring when you tried to ask about this, Jamison turned to the radio and said into it sharply, “Oi, Roadhog, you don’t wanna hurt my bird no more, right? I mean _I_ trust ya, but I was just telling _her_ that you don’t wanna hurt her no more, and ‘parently she needs some convincing!” 

Static answered him as he tried to make contact several more times before throwing the radio into his hip pouch with a complaint about weak signals. 

“Anyway, darl, no need ta fret over the Hog,” he said quickly as his leg bounced wildly. “Once ya get to know ‘im he’s really just a fucking teddy bear. He’s even got a fucking dainty-ass tea set from ‘cross the ditch. Dunno why. _An’_ he hoards pachimaris. Have I told you about the pachimaris?”

“Yes, Jamison,” you said as you reached up to pry his hand off. “You’ve told me about the pachimari collection.”

“It’s a fucking huge ass pachimari pile. Heaps of fucking onions with tentacles an’ cute faces,” he continued as his hands moved back to clutching the seat. “Fucking pachimari hell every time he opens his goddamn door.”

“I believe you,” you replied lightly.

“Now does someone what collects them Japanese doovalackies seem like the type of person ta hurt an inno... a _mostly_ innocent bird like you? I mean, _yeah,_ he does hate people in general and don’t take kindly ta strangers, or randos he don’t like, and laughs when they bleed... b-but nowadays most of ‘em end up living!” 

He laughed nervously, obviously at least somewhat aware of his terrible argumentation.

“Also he... He _loves_ animals.” Jamison’s voice was still frantic as he all but shouted over the wind. “Got banned from going near the dog pens ‘cause he kept sneaking the baby bitzers bikkies. Prolly also on Ziggy Stardust’s shit list for messing with her animal tests. _And_ he’s a veggo. Ya ever heard of a veggo being dangerous?”

“Do you mean vegetarian,” you asked, starting to wonder whether you really _had_ misread the Goliath (despite all contrary evidence) due to the amount of conviction Jamison spoke with.

“Yeah, vegetarian,” he said quickly. “Gimme a word.”

“Uh... lackadaisical,” you replied, almost thrown by his demand. “Easy-going or careless. But you do know dietary choices don’t mean anything in comparison to actions, right?”

“Nah, love. He’s a lacky- lackadaisical bastard. Like all veggos.”

You forced yourself to continue driving despite the growing desire to pinch the bridge of your nose. “You haven’t met many vegetarians, have you.”

“Look,” he said with a sharp laugh, “I’m just saying all the veggos I’ve met have been bloody sooky bastards at the end of the day. It’s ‘em what like pork whatcha gotta watch for.”

“Why pork, specifically,” you asked, confused as hell.

The man was silent for a total of ten seconds before suddenly breaking out into hysterical laugher. “Have ya ever heard of long or skinny pork, darl,” he said between breaths.

You racked your mind, but couldn’t think of anything. “No,” you said finally as you began to crest the slope at long last. “What is it?”

The next thing you knew, Jamison’s prosthetic arm was held sideways in front of your face, the bare hand shining like a brand in the sun as the other clasped you harshly about your rib cage. “It’s what human meat tastes like,” he hissed against your ear. “It’s what me arm tasted like. ‘S why I can’t even _smell_ bacon without gagging now.”

Your fingers almost slid off the handles in shock. You attempted to move away from the gleaming metal before you, only to end up with your back once more flush with Jamison’s front. “Y-you didn’t _actually_ eat your arm,” you said with more confidence than you felt.

“Don’t tell me what I did or didn’t do,” he spat, dropping his metal hand to his knee with a loud, echoing clang. “If I say I ate my arm, I ate my fucking arm.”

Your temper flared as you doubled down. “I’m calling bullshit. No one in their right minds would ever eat their own limb.”

You could feel him shake against you. “Who ever said I was in me right mind, darl,” he said in a calm voice. “Who’s been telling lies ‘bout me? Hm? I’ll fucking end ‘em.”

“Look, even during the famines of the 2010’s in Africa and Yemen no one was eating their own limbs,” you shot back, pulling your hands from the throttle and allowing the snowmobile to come to a rest at the top of the ridge. “And I already know you’re a fucking liar, though I can’t imagine _why_ you’re lying about this. Unless you did something embarrassing, and now you don’t want to admit it and ruin the ‘cool guy’ thing you so desperately want to have going.”

Jamison laughed sharply again, metal arm joining the flesh one and nearly squeezing the air from your lungs. “You’re the one what wanted to learn ‘bout my past, sheila,” he half-sang. “Don’t think I couldn’t tell what your bullshit game was all about. What, is this not what you ‘spected?”

Your body was shaking, too, though whether from shock or anger you weren’t quite sure. “I don’t expect anything from you,” you returned as you pried at his arms. “In fact, I’m going to invoke our truce.”

“Jumping to that already,” he said tauntingly as he allowed you to loosen his hold. “What, don’t you have any other brilliant plans?”

“Fuck you, this is a plan.” You pulled yourself out of his grip and turned sideways on the snowmobile, one leg curling over the seat as you stared him down. “Now, tell the truth. What happened to your arm?”

Jamison’s face was full of cold fury. “Fine. D’ya _really_ want the truth?”

“Yes,” you said, dreading the answer.

Clenching his jaw, he drew in a deep breath as he glared into your eyes. Then, with a blink, he released the air in a long stream as his shoulders drooped. He picked at his hands as they laid limply in his lap, occasionally tugging at either of his sleeve cuffs as he stared down at them with an exhausted expression.

“It’s an old joke,” he admitted quietly. “ ‘Cause ya see, baby, I was born this way.” He laughed hollowly as he made a flourishing gesture with his right arm.

What. You blinked in disbelief as he dropped his hand back to his lap. “Who on Earth would come up with a joke like that,” you said, echoing his soft tone.

“My uncle,” he replied, twisting a patch of velcro on his right sleeve. “Told me that I’d be able ta tell other kids that story if they ever made fun of me. That I’d be able ta claim that I was a right bloody bad ass, ‘stead of an incomplete freak of nature.” He chuckled weakly, eyebrows knitting. “‘Course, don’t think he knew what’d happen with the...”

His voice trailed off thickly as he stared into the middle distance. After a moment, he laughed again. “How’s ‘bout we... _don’t_ talk about this,” he asked, cracking an empty grin as he continued to stare emptily at the snow.

You felt like someone had doused you in cold water as your heart cried out in pity. “Yeah, okay.” 

Slowly you leant towards him, sliding your hands across the seat to grab his. He jumped, unfocused eyes clearing and darting to your face searchingly. “Would you be alright with a hug,” you asked.

Jamison didn’t say anything, continuing to stare at you with a conflicted look. With a weak smile and chuckle, he opened his mouth to reply. All that came out was a strangled sound before he closed it again and roughly drew a knuckle along the underside of his eye. He continued to chuckle as he shrugged.

Moving closer with a cautious and sympathetic half-smile, you smoothed your arms up along his and drew him into a loose hug. Rubbing a hand across his shoulders, you tried to ignore how painfully still he was. Jamison breathed shakily in your embrace, tiny rueful chuckles escaping his mouth with every breath. 

After a moment, his hands came up to rest on your shoulder blades as he hid his face in your shoulder. He continued to breathe shakily and chuckle. The laughter gradually built up and grew louder as you held him, until he was all but howling into your shoulder.

The laughter cut off abruptly as his hands fisted in your coat. “Oh, fuck, I’ve gotta keep ya,” he said vehemently. “No worries, though, no worries! _Hahaha!_ I’ll keep you safe! I’ve got it all planned...” 

He laughed once more before he suddenly shoved you away, leaving you sprawled backwards on the handles of the snowmobile. “Been building a buncha new traps, new bombs,” he panted rapidly as he glared madly at the piles of snow and rocks nearby, flashing each one a rictus grin in turn. “Ma-made heaps ‘a mods. Gotta keep ya... keep ya safe. We’ll be, we’ll be back at the house, it’s outta the way enough. _Hehehe_... No, wait, no... s’not close enough... they...”

Jamison growled lowly, clutching at the top of his hood and pulling it down over his eyes before breaking out into hysterical laughter again. Suddenly he shoved a hand into his side pouch. “I’ll show ‘em! I’ll show ‘em all! I can keep ‘em away from what’s mine! _Hahaha haha_ ha! They’ll like this one! Just needs a little testing!”

Realising what he was going to do as he did so, you moved to stop him. 

Your shouts fell on deaf ears as he withdrew a bomb from the deep pocket and threw it at a group of nearby rocks. Then, in a move reminiscent of your first meeting, he reached out his flesh arm to press you awkwardly into his collar. Your arms scrabbled against him as you fought to avoid falling over, bent at an almost painful angle between the snowmobile and his elbow. 

Finally you managed to steady yourself by turning completely around in your seat. Your hands remained twisted in his coat as you took in your bearings.

With one side of your face squashed against his chest and the palm of his gloved hand covering the other, it was almost impossible to see what he pulled out of the pouch next. When you finally realised what it was, your struggles began anew as you called out his name.

It was a detonator.

His focus remained unbroken as he held the detonator triumphantly before him, seeming almost like he was praying to it for the manic look on his face. You reached up a hand to try and keep him from pressing the button. His arm was too long. The detonator was too far away.

Your heart felt like it froze as he pressed the button. The bomb beeped like a car and exploded.

Suddenly you couldn’t hear anything, but you could feel Jamison’s laughter in his chest as the rocks and snow blew apart. 

The suddenly loosened snow jumped up like a cloud and was buffeted by the wind. A large clump swirled around and slammed into you and Jamison, turning upon impact into an icy powder that sank into every open crevice a sting. Some of the smaller rocks went flying through the air, leaving trails of snow and smoke in their wake.

Larger stones jumped and slowly began to roll down the mountain on either side.

Your hearing returned gradually through a steadily descending ringing, leaving you aware of the sound of crackling snow and even more aware of how loud the explosions ‘expert’ was laughing.

“What are you doing,” you shouted as you tried once more to push away from him. “We’re on top of a mountain! You can’t _do_ that here!”

He turned and pressed his cold lips sharply to yours, leaning you back towards the handles of the snowmobile. You pushed at his shoulders, freeing your mouth and enabling him to babble the words “mine” and “safe” repeatedly into your ear as he pulled you into a rough hug.

“No, seriously,” you said, “you could cause - ”

You both froze in silence when the snow beneath the still rumbling engine gave a crunching noise.

“Shit,” you breathed out, earning a giggle from Jamison as the snowmobile pitched forward.

“Now _this_ is more like it,” Jamison cackled, shoving his way forward to grab the handles behind you and all but caging you in.

Clinging to him like a sloth, your thighs overlapping his and arms about his neck, you screamed “No, wait” as he revved the engine and the snowmobile shot forward on the sliding snow. His answer was a whoop of laughter as he started manoeuvring the vehicle through the avalanche as if it were a giant toboggan.

You had been in what you had considered some truly terrifying situations in life. 

Turbulence on airplanes, roller coasters, car crashes...

None of those compared to riding a snowmobile backwards down a mountain during an avalanche while a crazy man laughed in your ear.

This was it. You were going to die. You’d known all along that it would be his fault.

You were never so displeased to be right.

The snowmobile shuddered beneath you, jumping up and down over the shifting snow as Jamison weaved to and fro with the tide. After a few seconds you managed to work up the courage to pull yourself up slightly and turn halfway forward. Screaming into his lapel, you watched in horror as the previously serene beauty fell away. In its place was a world where the ground shifted and swayed, breaking into small clumps and dragging down anything small enough to be buried.

Jamison was laughing and cursing at the same time as the snow kept threatening to billow over the back end of the snowmobile or force him to turn and risk being rolled underneath the slide. A painful pressure grew around your left ankle and began shooting up to your knee. 

When you looked back you saw that the avalanche was encasing it and trying to twist you away from the comparative safety of Jamison’s arms. Your eyes widened when you realised that the direction the snow was pulling would end with your leg held directly against the spinning treads at the back of the vehicle. Hissing in pain as the treads started nipping at your boot, you pulled your limb back out of the icy hold with a strength you didn’t realise you had possessed and linked your ankles together around Jamison’s hips.

Jamison laughed even louder, if that were possible, and released the left handle for a moment to steady you as you turned to face forward once more.

You and Jamison both saw the cliff at the same time. He laughed as you screamed, and turned to shout into your ear over the roar of the avalanche, “Hold on tight!”

The next thing you knew, you were flying through the air again as the ground fell away beneath you.

The avalanche spilled over the cliff behind you, leaving a large white cloud as it settled. Underneath you, however, you had bigger things to worry about. Not from Jamison. At this point you would have welcomed it, if it was just him. 

No - now the engine of the snowmobile was tipping at a sharp angle towards the ground as you fell.

Keeping one hand on the handles, Jamison pulled you to lean back with him. The move straightened out the vehicle enough to allow him to shift his arm under your hips and hold you up as he stood shakily on the seat. You demands of what he was doing quickly melted into another shriek as he jumped off the back of the snowmobile, wrapping his arms around you as he did so.

You pressed your face into his chest, screwing your eyes shut as your mind went blank in panic.

Then, with a jolt, you hit the ground. The shock was, once again, swallowed by Jamison’s prosthetic leg. But this time the momentum sent the two of you cartwheeling head over heels and sliding across a strangely smooth surface on your sides.

In the background you heard the snowmobile crash into something, then another crash and a screeching skid.

For a moment there was silence but for the panting breaths of Jamison and yourself. Your arms were still encircled around him, though your legs were entangled together as you lay on the hard ground. Your heart was beating a staccato, and you could see the veins in Jamison’s throat jumping in equal time. You pulled back to see him grinning down at you with a euphoric expression.

You blinked, then returned it slowly. Hoo _boy_ were you glad to be alive after that.

Jamison laughed and pushed away from you as he sat up, rubbing at his chest on the side you’d skidded on. “Fuck me, that was bloody ripper,” he crowed, biting his fingertips as he looked back to the cliff with a wild smile and a cough. “See, darl?” With a grand sweeping gesture, he pointed your attention to the cliff as well. “That’s what _real_ driving’s like.”

Still caught up in the joyous haze of ‘I can’t believe I survived that,’ you laughed riotously. “You destroyed the snowmobile, dude. I’m not sure I agree with you there.”

“Well you’re laughing, ain’t ya,” he said with a confused frown. “Can’t be too upset if you’re laughing.”

He chuckled, but your own laughter quickly died down when you remembered exactly _what_ had led to this situation. “Laughter doesn’t always mean someone isn’t upset,” you said. This point may have been only slightly destroyed by the fact that your voice was still tinged with laughter.

“Laughing means someone’s having fun, don’t it,” he shot back, starting to attempt to scramble a standing position as his prosthetic leg kept sliding out from under him. “So, way _I_ see it, things can’t be too messed up if you’re laughing.”

You could tell that, based on the tone he’d had earlier, he was starting to get defensive again. Shaking your head, you simply hummed in response and looked down at the ice you were laying on.

Wait... ice?

You sat up and looked around, taking in the frozen lake you sat in the middle of. Several large rocks popped up through the rime. From where you sat you could tell that the snowmobile had hit one, breaking off at least one skid, and flipped over a second before skidding on its back. Somewhere along the way the ropes you had used to affix the bags to the back had snapped, throwing your provisions off into the unknown. You looked around for them, snapping your head about in worry, until you saw the packs lying a bit away the steaming snowmobile.

“Well, don’t seem too bad,” Jamison was saying as he ran two fingers under the side of hood. Pulling them out, he laughed. “Well, ‘side from this cut on my ear. Thought I’d felt something. _Heh_.” Shaking himself, he bent over and picked up a pebble that fell from his coat. After examining it for a moment, he threw it towards the snowmobile with a grunt. 

Staring at the wreckage with a hand cupping his chin, he hummed thoughtfully for a moment as you tried to stand. When you fell over with a hiss, grasping your ankle, he turned toward you. “What ‘bout you, love? You alright?”

Teeth bared in pain, you tried to stand again. This time you managed it, though it felt like your ankle was on fire. “I think, _ow_ , I think I’m fine,” you replied. “I can stand, at least.”

Jamison blinked at you. Then he shrugged with a smile. “Eh, walk it off. Now,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “let’s see ‘bout the snowmobile and how well an’ bloody fucked we are.”

He was off in the direction of the snowmobile before you could say or do anything in reply. “Well fuck you too,” you muttered to yourself as you slowly shuffled after him, limping slightly as you tried to ignore the shooting pains in your leg.

You weren’t sure why, but you were slightly mad that he wasn’t helping you walk right now. He got you into this mess by trying to prove he could keep you safe, after all. The _least_ he could do currently was actually make sure you weren’t hurt.

Jamison was singing a tune under his breath as he picked up your bag and the broken skid, examining the latter as if it were the cause of the accident as he shouldered the pack. The song was another classical piece from the sounds of it. You didn’t recognise this one either.

“What’s that,” you asked as you neared the wreck, standing to the front of the engine and looking at the underbelly.

The thing was clearly beyond salvaging. The engine was bowed in on one side, and, in addition to the skid Jamison held, one of the tire treads was hanging loose. Sharp pieces of scrap lay scattered between the wreck itself and the first rock it had hit, and Jamison’s bag lay just beyond the ex-snowmobile on the other side.

“Hmm? Oh, this here’s a skid. Broke off the snowmobile,” he said as he examined it. “Thought that’d be right bloody obvious for ya.”

“I meant the song you’re humming.” You eyed his bag - he had yours. Perhaps you should get his, if it didn’t explode.

Jamison snickered, finally tucking the skid under one arm and coming up to pry off the other. “Oh, it’s just Verdi’s Requiem.”

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a classical music fan,” you said, kicking the skid loose when he asked and instantly regretting it as more pain erupted in your ankle.

His amused grin as he twisted off the skid was almost infectious. “I’ve got multiple tastes, darl. I’ll admit, bein’ outta the Outback does have its pluses sometimes. Better access ta nice music, fucking ace food, spunky folk ‘round every corner, _and_ I’ve only got the coppers ta worry ‘bout here... Still, I do miss home.”

You hissed quietly in pain again as you tried to stand on your ankle. You’d _really_ done something to it now. 

“Why do you want to go back so badly if there are so many pluses here,” you asked, resting a hand on the chassis of the snowmobile as you rubbed at the pained joint.

“Well, it’s like they say, yeah? There’s no place like home,” Jamison said, more focused on comparing the two skids as he began to walk towards the shore. “Could ya grab my dillybag, darl? It ain’t ‘sploded yet, so it should be safe.”

“Yeah, sure,” you said. “Let me just walk on my clearly injured ankle and do that for you.”

He took several more steps before your words registered. Spinning on his peg leg, he looked at you in confusion. “Your ankle’s that bad off? Thought you could stand on it.”

You levelled a flat look at him and began to shuffle towards the nearby rock with a mind to sit down. “Well apparently it’s messed up,” you replied, hissing in pain again.

Jamison started to walk towards you, shoving the skids as far into his pouch as they would go. “Ey, darl, she’ll be alright,” he was saying. “I can carry ya if need -” 

The ice cracked ominously under the snowmobile as the heated metal shifted. The next thing you knew, the snowmobile was sliding under the water. Large slabs of ice tilted up and broke apart in the area around it, throwing both you and Jamison’s bag into the icy water.

You hit the lake with a shout of surprise, only dimly aware of Jamison’s own shout before the water closed over you.

You fought against the cold water, air escaping you quickly in your panic as the frigid temperatures quickly sapped your strength. Your layers, once the things that had saved your life, now threatened it as they became sodden, their weight pulling you deeper.

Staring up at the surface from beneath, you wondered if _this_ was actually how you were going to die.

It was too cold to move as you choked on the water that surrounded you.

The world began to dim.

The last thing you were aware of was shadow moving above you.


	14. Chapter Eight: Day Two: Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA Wherein Occurs Ice Fishing Without Proper Equipment
> 
> Due to formatting issues, I had to take down and repost this. When you mess up an italic on this site, it is horrifically unforgiving. I am also happy to announce that I am alive - I was simply on a brief hiatus due to real life taking precedence for a bit.

His mind shouted at him as he screamed, reaching toward her in blind panic as the ice cracked before him and she slid under the surface.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_...” He ran to the edge of the hole, jumping to the side as the ice shifted beneath his boot. “Fuck!”

 _Goddamn cunting idiot_ his mind continued screaming. He fell to his knees and shot his arms into the freezing water.

Water slid up his nose as his arms flailed about beneath the surface, the sleeves becoming soaked by the waves he created and the cold stinging and biting. _This is why I’ll never amount to anything Can’t even keep what’s mine safe_

His breath was coming out in heavy bursts, creating dense clouds that broke upon the lake like smoke on the wind. _Idiot_

The edge of the ice was jagged and he could feel it pressing into his rib cage. He gasped as he felt his injury begin to crack. No, no, no, not yet! Biting his tongue to dull the pain, he leaned in further as he chased after her disappearing form.

_It was my plan what did this_

Finally, he caught her wrist.

No, he corrected himself, panting as he pulled her up. 

No, this was the snowmobile’s fault. The cliff’s fault. The mountain’s fault. The snow slide’s fault. _My fault_ No! The memory of them made him do this. Them. It was their fault.

Their fault - not his. They had hurt her by their presence in his mind. He wouldn’t let them hurt her again. He’d find their shitty hideout again, blow it up again, make them pay for what they’d done to her, to him... The mass of noise rose in his head again as he panted through clenched teeth.

_Remembered it Unlocked it Allowed it out again_

No! _Those memories_ don’t _exist_ \- wait, what was he thinking of again?

He found he couldn’t focus anymore on anything but what was directly in front of his eyes - her, blue. Cold. _Drowned_ Breathing? Yes? No?! 

His already racing heart beat faster. He felt flat, thin, as he heaved her over the edge.

He scrambled backwards and bodily dragged her up out of the water and over him. The cold leached away everything as he laid there, faintly aware of the uncomfortable press of objects in the pack on his back. His arms wrapped around her to secure her drenched frame to his chest. His hand shook as he reached up to brush the clinging strands of hair from her forehead. 

She’d lost her hat. Someone’s keening laughter was echoing through the valley.

He should blow whoever it was up for laughing at him right now. The thought of the look of surprised horror and the beauty of the explosion blasting them apart... It made him chuckle as he pressed a shivering kiss to her forehead.

The ice beneath them shifted, a low cracking sound finally registering in his ears. The heel of his boot skidded in his sudden attempt to slide on his ass away from the jagged hole. 

There was the rock behind them. He could reach it, use a bomb, get to land. Keep her safe.

He scrabbled towards it on his back.

His peg leg scrabbled for purchase before digging in, creating tiny fissures that broke apart and sped their way beneath him. The surface beneath him sagged, giving way to a frigidness worse than anything he had ever experienced. His boot slipped, and the ice cracked further when his peg leg stabbed down again. Once more it happened as he flipped over, tightening his arms around her as he planted his knee down and began to lever himself up.

The peg slid further into the ice, creaking and catching as he stumbled forward. The ice cracked deeper and began splintering under his weight. 

He ran.

The ice cracked and popped beneath him, sliding away even as he shot forward.

He could feel water start to seep through the bottom of his boot.

With a desperate lunge, he jumped.

And landed on the rock with her beneath him. He yelped in panic as he shoved her up and away from the edge of the stone, checking at the same time if he had cracked her skull. 

_Can’t keep what’s mine safe Just like she said Mistake_

No blood, at least. Unfortunately there was but a faint pulse when he pulled off his left glove and shoved quivering fingers against her throat. Was she breathing?

Hoping that his ears were still good for something, he pressed one against her face. He heard nothing. His heart began beating faster again as he recalled how his uncle would choke on foul smelling liquids, how he’d been taught to fix it, how one day it didn’t work.

No. He wouldn’t let that happen. Not again.

He threw her down on the rock, laying her out as flat as possible. He tilted up her chin, opened her mouth, and pinched her nose with one hand.

_Remember, Jim Jam, it’s breathe, two, three, four, then check._

He shook away the phantom of his uncle’s voice as he placed his mouth over hers and breathed.

 

Your lungs burned as someone forced air down your throat. Your head and chest both hurt as if someone had punched you there. Repeatedly, at least as far as your chest was concerned. You pushed whoever had locked their mouth over yours away, unable to focus on figuring out who it was, or what was going on, due to your sudden need to cough violently.

The person turned out to be Jamison, who shouted out a loud “thank fuck you’re alive” or something along those lines as you rolled to your side.

Water flew from your mouth as soon as you opened it. You hacked onto the snow-tipped rock beneath you, but it just kept coming. It felt like you were throwing up and possibly even looked like it. Every odd, shuddering breath you managed to draw in was immediately forced back out by your wheezing and gasping. Tears pricked at your eyes, blurring your sight as you struggled to breathe.

Jamison was kneeling next to you, rubbing you on the back and asking if you were alright.

“Oh my god, dude,” you managed to choke out as you clutched at his knee for support. “What the fuck happened?”

Jamison‘s face screwed up as he visibly searched for words. “Well, ya fell in the water.”

“No shit.” You fell to your knees and elbows with a deep cough, almost retching as you tried to expel the last of the liquid in your lungs. “Where are we?”

“On a rock.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” you said, finally feeling your breath come more easily. “How did we get here?”

You looked up, seeing the broken ice leading to the base of the rock from where the snowmobile had been. Had he dragged you here?

Jamison followed your gaze, still rubbing your back, and grinned weakly at the hole. “I, uh, well, I saved your life.”

Yes. Yes he had.

You looked to him, breathing heavily as if that could fix the burning feeling in your chest and throat. 

“Thanks.”

Jamison’s eyes flicked to you. Then he turned to face you again with a quietly happy smile. “Hey, now, no worries.” His laugh sounded more like a heavy breath as he switched to staring somewhere over your shoulder. “But bloody fuck, darl, am I knackered.”

You knew this one from your time in Ireland. Or was it just standard, now? “I’m tired too, Jamison,” you said.

The wind blew over you, though it felt more like it went through you. You both visibly shivered, though the strength of yours caused Jamison to start rubbing your back again with more vigour. You winced as pain shot through your ankle when you sat up to look around.

The rock was in the middle of the lake, and Jamison had your pack. Good. That meant tent, sleeping bags, cook stove, tent, sleeping bags...

Shit. You were both cold and wet, and rapidly losing focus for it.

“We have to get to shore,” you said as calmly as you could with chattering teeth. “We n-need to set up the tent and get the st-stove going. We need to get warm, now.”

“Alright, yeah,” Jamison said as he slowly stood, looking to the shoreline. “I’ve got a, uh, _hahah_ -ow...” He coughed and groaned, holding his side with one hand as he ground the other against his forehead. Clicking his fingers with a sudden gasp, he exclaimed, “I’ve got a concussive mine! I can blow us up.”

“Like you did the mountain,” you asked, raising your eyebrows as you started to peel off your soggy gloves. “Are you actually just out to kill me?”

Jamison’s face showed blatant disgust at the idea as he began digging through his side pouch. “No. Why would I save your life if I wanted ta kill ya?”

“You have almost killed me twice in one day,” you said, still feeling oddly calm as you put the gloves in your pocket and unzipped your coat.

“No I didn’t. I saved ya twice.” Jamison pulled out some obviously homemade explosive and an annoying familiar trigger. And, also, an annoyingly familiar playful smirk. “Ya owe me.”

“I can’t owe you if you’re the reason my life was in danger, Jamie.”

“Nah, I’m not the reason,” he replied absently as he looked repeatedly between the the mine in his hands and the shore before placing the explosive carefully on the rock near his feet. “It’s the ice breaking what put ya in danger.”

“It only broke because of your stunt,” you said as you fought a shiver that wracked your body.

“That wouldn’t have happened without your wanting ta play your stupid game.” Jamison turned to you with a cross expression and held out a hand. “C’mon, get up.”

You were busy pulling off your coat at that point. The sight caused him to blink a few times as his mouth fell open.

“My ankle is,” you began.

Jamison, however, was more interested in proving once more that quiet was not his forte. “Why the fuck are ya taking off your coat?! Aren’t ya worried ‘bout, I dunno, freezing or something?”

You sighed, staring at your knees and the breath that clouded just beyond your nose as you left the coat around your elbows. “You really don’t know how the cold works, do you?”

“Do I look like someone who knows shit about the cold?” Jamison gestured wildly to himself. His point would have been better served if he hadn’t been clad in snow pants and a thick, hooded coat.

You couldn’t help snickering at that. “Honestly, yes. Except for the peg leg. A snow shoe would make more sense.”

“The fuck kind of shoe is that,” he questioned before you shivered again. “Oh, okay, yanno what? Stuff the snow shoe question. _Why_ are ya taking off your coat?”

“It’s wet,” you said simply as you looked up at him.

His brow furrowed and his words came out with confused laughter. “Yes. But what does that have ta do with your stripping now? I mean, I’ve already said I’m all for it, but now don’t really seem the best time for —”

“If you say anything about how I’m stripping for sex, you’re wrong and you c-can fuck off.” You held up your hand for him to grab as you spoke, which he did, having the decency to look at least mildly chastised. “My clothes are wet, thanks to you, and I need to get them off and get w-warm before I freeze to death.”

“Again, it ain’t my fault you fell in the water,” Jamison groused as he gathered you up in his arms. “I’d’ve expected you ta be the one what knows how ta deal with ice, but nah. You’re the one who decided ta fall in.”

You scowled at him as you put your arms around his neck for support. “Again, it _is_ your fault because you crashed the snowmobile into the ice and weakened it enough _for_ me to fall in.”

“I only crashed the snowmobile ‘cause that cliff snuck up on me.”

Jamison went to stand over the mine he’d placed and chewed the inside of his cheek as he looked between you and the rock.

You ignored this, saying, “There is no way a cliff could have possibly snuck up on you.”

“Well there were a few other things on me mind at the time, darl,” he snarked, releasing your legs to hand you the detonator. “Like a screaming sheila with her legs ‘round me an’ a snow slide I had ta outrace. ‘Sides, I did manage ta keep ya safe. Just imagine what would’ve happened if I hadn’t been there ta jump us ta safety. Think ‘bout how terrible that would’ve been.”

“If you hadn’t blown up the mountain there wouldn’t have been a snow slide.” He opened his mouth to defend himself but you cut him off. “And before you try to wriggle out of that one too, yes. It _is_ your fault the mountain was blown up because _you_ were the one who set off the explosives. What the fuck was even up with that, dude.”

Jamison glared at you. “Well ‘scuse me for making a mistake. I know ya don’t like ‘em much, but it is what I am, innit? Said as much yourself.”

What?

“What are you even talking about?”

Both his hands migrated to gripping your shoulders as he leant down to glare at you. “I’m a mistake, a moron, a _freak_. It’s why ya don’t like me, innit?”

“What, no,” you said, trying to avoid putting weight on your injured ankle. “You’re not —”

“I’m a man what’s half there, love,” he hissed. “Well I’m sorry that I’m not some perfect bloke that’s well put together an’ spunk like, like Lúcio Correia or whatever, an’ that I can’t ever do one bloody thing right in my whole _cunting_ life! ‘Cause even when I actually _do_ give a damn and try ta do the right thing, no! Fuck me, all I am at the end of the bloody day’s a fucking Junker what only ever destroys everything he touches, right?!”

“Oh, okay hang on, I never said you were —”

“It’s why ya don’t like me, right?” His smile gleamed like a knife. “C’mon, tell me ya hate me again, darl. Maybe this time it’ll get through.”

“I don’t hate you,” you shouted, planting your frigid hands on the sides of his face as best you could while holding a trigger. “Yes, you make mistakes, but you are not one yourself! No one is a mistake! People make them, yes, but no one _is_ one! But you _need_ to take responsibility for the mistakes you do make! Maybe if you did that even just _once_ I’d actually be willing to admit that I _do_ like you!”

Crap. You hadn’t meant to say that. Especially when you still weren’t actually sure how you felt about him, and _definitely_ not in this context. You weren’t sure what context would have been preferable, but this definitely was not it.

Oh, wow, you felt dizzy all of a sudden. Okay, no more arguing until somewhere warm.

“Yeah, well... wait.” Jamison froze. He blinked rapidly, his mouth opening and closing once. “What did just you say?”

“Look, we don’t have time for this unless you really _do_ want to kill me,” you said quickly. “What are we doing with this bomb here, exactly? Jumping?”

Jamison was still gaping at you, head tilting as he worked over your words. “You... you like me?”

A slow smile was growing on his face. You dropped a hand to his shoulder and shook him once. “I will freeze to death if we stay here much longer. Now, are we going to be using this to jump to shore,” you said, pointing to the mine at your feet with the detonator. “Usually you only have your tire. Will this work now?”

“I’ve never done this in front of ya,” he said slowly. Then he cocked his head to the side and smiled wider. “But you know how I usually do this. An’ ya remembered it, ‘cause you _like_ me.”

“Don’t make me slap you,” you threatened, “because I will if you don’t get me to shore right now.”

Jamison laughed once before groaning in pain as the joyous smile fell from his face. Rubbing at his side, he abruptly stooped to pick you up once again. “Right,” he said. “Shore.”

His knees pressed into your side and you could feel his breath shudder in his chest as he curled up over the mine. Shifting, he adjusted his arms around you several times, testing the grip until he felt comfortable. Then he his wind chapped lips to your ear. 

“Okay. Press the button, darl.”

The blast warmed you briefly and then you were flying through the air. It took a surprising amount of willpower not to scream as you found yourself once again clutching Jamison for support. He let out a single bark of laughter before hissing, hiding his face in the shoulder of your wet sweater for a moment as his body stiffened.

Then you were landing again with a small hop on his peg leg. So that’s why there was the spring attached. Huh. Makes sense.

Oh, wait, you’d already figured that out back when you were watching the security footage.

“Hah,” Jamison said with a tired and triumphant grin. “I stuck the landing for once in this frozen shithole.”

Then he swayed sideways and caught himself with a jolting movement before sinking to his knees. “Fucking Christ,” he cursed as he tried and failed to stand again. “Holy fucking _shit_ I’m tired.”

You rolled out of his grasp, amazed that he had managed to keep hold of you from the way his arms were trembling. Your fingers felt warm as you planted your hands in the snow to hold yourself up. You didn’t want to look at them.

In fact, you were starting to feel warm all over. And sleepy. 

How wonderful. Hypothermia was setting in. You should probably have kept Jamison more focused on the rock, and not distracted yourself with bickering.

“We need to set up the tent,” you said.

“Sure thing, darl.” Jamison pulled his left arm out and slung the pack around to his front. The force of the movement pulled him down with the bag. “Ow.”

“Are you okay,” you asked as you started to pull out the tent with fingers that didn’t want to work properly.

“Yeah, nah,” Jamison said with a grin. “I’m fine.”

You raised an eyebrow at him as you tried to undo the tent bag. “You’re lying.”

“Am not.” He chuckled weakly, rubbing his side again. “ ‘Least not as much as you lied about your ankle. What’s wrong with it, then?”

“I won’t know exactly until I take my boot off.” With a frustrated grunt you handed the bag to him. “Could you open this please?”

Jamison hummed and undid the bag with a quick and fluid movement from his right hand. “D’ya think you’ll need help setting it up?”

You pulled out the pieces with leaden fingers that were worryingly darker than usual and decided that yes. Yes you would. 

Jamison didn’t even wait for you to finish your request for assistance before gathering up a few of the bits and pieces and begin stringing them together. You pointed out a good place to set up the tent and off he went. 

Well, if he wanted to do it himself, that was fine by you. As he went about setting up your shelter, you pulled out the cookstove and lit it. Huddling as close to the tiny thing as possible, you began peeling off the rest of your clothes. The task was more difficult now that they were growing stiff, but you managed it.

Your boots were next to impossible to remove though. So you decided to leave them on for the time being, instead focusing on trying to figure out what was wrong with your leg. You did this the best you could. Which meant squeezing and poking at it.

Pain. Pain, this was painful. Oh, wow. But hey, at least nothing shifted, which meant it wasn’t broken. Just horrifically twisted. Ow.

This was fine, you told yourself as you held up your leg and tipped icy water from your boot. Okay, no it wasn’t, but what else could you do? The wind blew over you. Oh, hey, it was warm.

Oh, hey, you weren’t shivering anymore.

Crap.

Need to be out of these freezing clothes.

You pulled off each stiffening layer as quickly as your frozen fingers allowed. Your boots were difficult — it took a great deal of focus to break the laces free from the ice and snow and undo the knots. And one boot and pain, pain, pain. And both boots were off. Oh, hey. Your clothes disappeared as soon as you chucked them aside. Oh, hey. Jamie sure was walking between you and the tent a lot.

Soon you were sitting in the snow in your thermals, peeling off your socks.

Someone was standing over you, their giant form blotting out the sun. No, that was Jamison. You blinked up at him.

Jamison’s brow was furrowed as he shucked ice from his sleeves. “So _why_ d’ya gotta take off your clothes? I mean, I’m not complaining, but ya never told me why, other than that they’re wet. And, yanno, it seems ta me that this is a really fucking stupid thing to do while sitting in the snow. But, hey, ya do know more than me ‘bout all this so —”

His eyes took on a brownish tint in the shadow as he finally shifted his gaze to you. “Oi, _heh_ , darl, you don’t look so hot.”

You shrugged, unable to find the energy to care. “I probably have hypothermia.” You looked at the ice forming on his arms and the way his glove cracked when he clenched his hands. “You should take off your wet clothes before they freeze.”

“Oh. Oh _right_! That would be why this hurts now,” he said, looking down at his rime-encrusted glove and tearing it off to reveal blue fingers. He flexed them, chuckling. “Wow, that feels fucking weird. So, ah, what’s hypothermia?”

“It’s medical for ‘freezing to death’. Is the tent ready,” you asked.

His nod merely underlined the obvious as you turned to look at the tent. It was a winter tent, built for mountaineering, a bit more than three feet wide and over twice as long. The open door led directly into the tent itself. Oh, good. An integrated entryway meant more space.

“Nice work, Jamison.” You held up a hand to him and grabbed the stove’s handle. You released it not a second later. 

Dear Lord, that felt like a firebrand.

“Hey, you alright,” he asked, fixing you with an unreadable expression.

You shook your head. “I need to get warm. Now.”

Jamison grabbed you by the shoulder and the stove by the other, pressing the tiny metal device into your lap. “Okay. Okay, darl. Just, _haha_ , just hang on. I’ll keep you from hypothermia-ing, or however ya say it.”

You didn’t have the energy to hide your giggle. “Hypothermia is a noun.”

He smiled weakly. “Oh. Righto then. _Haha_ -ow. Well, still. Still don’t want ya dying on me. I know! We just need ta get you to the tent, then you’ll be fine!”

And then you were back in his arms as he hobbled towards the shelter.

You blinked at him, somehow unable to find fault in this logic. You were too tired to care about anything beyond the way the stove in your lap seemed to burn and how you could barely bend your fingers. 

All you cared about was the shelter that you and Jamison were hobbling towards.

Soon you were being laid down inside the tent with the cookstove beside you. Giving you a tired smile, Jamison turned to close the entrance. Your lips curved in return, and you thanked him in a quiet voice.

“No worries, darling,” he said, starting to unzip his coat. “I’m just glad you can still talk.”

Oh, hey, something was red and shiny on his knuckles when he flexed them. It stood starkly against the vibrant blue tinge they had acquired. Now what could they be? Oh, hang on, those were cuts!

Wait a minute... Cuts?!

They were small enough to look more like bad paper cuts, but that wasn’t what bothered you. What bothered you was that they had _not_ been there yesterday. Had they been there this morning? He’d had his glove on by the time you’d brought him his food, but you’d thought it because he’d gotten cold.

“Jesus, dude, what the fuck happened to your hand?!”

Jamison’s eyes flicked to meet yours, then over to his hand. “Oh, that,” he said as he peeled off his coat. “Eh, I kinda got a bit sliced up while adding, uh, ‘bout four mirrors worth of bad luck this morning. But hey, I figure I’ve not had much good luck in my life, ‘cept meeting you and Roadhog. What’s a little more bad gonna do? Gonna be dead long ‘fore it runs out anyhow. _Heh._ ”

You blinked when he smiled at you before holding up his blue-tinged hand. “Hand’s so fucking cold now that I can’t really feel the cuts. They’re not that bad, anyway. Didn’t hurt this morning, don’t hurt now. ‘Cept for feeling like they’re on fucking fire.” He flexed his fingers a few times before shrugging again and moving on to his scarf.

The wind howled outside and buffeted the sides of the tent, but the air inside remained still. You looked at the cookstove, trying to remember something important. Something about stoves in enclosed spaces.

Jamison called out your name. When you looked up, you saw him tossing laying out his coat, scarf, and jumper and rubbing at a long gash over the side of his face and ear. Almost unbidden your eyes traced his bony chest and how it was covered by only a bandage and bruise on the right side. You tried to avoid staring at that, or at the tan lines he sported.

He called your name again. This time when you met his gaze you saw that he was chewing his lip and sporting that same worried expression. “Don’t ya, ah, don’t ya still need outta your wet clothes?” 

His eyes raked over your thermal shirt and down to your legs, coming to a stop somewhere around your knees. Then his mind seemed to stall as his eyes glazed over.

Your eyes, however, were busy tracing over his tan lines and that strange bandage taped to his side. The tan line on his stomach pointed down to his hips and faded off just above his crotch. Wow, his skin was really pale under where his harnesses usually rested. How pale would his... 

No, no. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about how you’d imagined what it would look like and feel like and oh crap you were staring.

“Why did you take off your coat,” you asked, hoping that he hadn’t noticed your lingering look and flexing fingers that were slowly regaining mobility.

Amazingly, he hadn’t. He was staring off into space, or he had been until your words broke his trance. At his lost expression you repeated your question.

He shrugged, still staring at your leg. “They were wet thanks ta me saving your life. Like your clothes. ‘Cept yours were wet thanks ta...” He shook his head, a confident yet somehow brittle smirk taking over his features. “Speaking of wet clothes, darl, don’t ya need ta get yours off still?”

Suddenly the gears in your head came together, and you shot towards the entrance. Your breath came out in a gasp when you landed on your stomach. Jamison cursed and moved to right you, but you pushed his hands away. He let out a hiss of pain when your slap hit the cuts on his hand, but so what? 

You had to get a vent open to prevent suffocation from the stove’s exhaust. 

Jamison released huffy breath, muttering something about smoke and cradling his hand. You ignored him, moving the cookstove to an open space in the entryway. As you did so, you explained your actions. 

You did not want him closing the vents. Yes, it would probably be out of good intentions, but then he would succeed in his apparent secret quest to ‘accidentally’ kill you both.

The last thing you did as the tent slowly grew warmer was dig out the sleeping bags and throw them over your shoulder. There, now the only things that didn’t belong in the entryway were your head and shoulders and Jamison himself. 

You looked at the man in question, almost admiring his sharp profile as the warmth of the stove seemed to rejuvenate you.

Then you realised that the only reason you could see his profile so well was because he was staring at your ass. Probably, at least. Again. _Crap_. You hadn’t thought that through very well. Of _course_ your ass was on display.

You pushed up to block the view. And barely missed hitting your chin on the floor when your elbows didn’t seem to want to work.

“Hey,” you said, slapping at him. He straightened and turned to look at you with wide eyes. “Stop staring and help me, please.”

“What d’ya need help with, darl.” He turned to run his left hand across your shoulders. “I mean, _heh_ s’not like I need ya ta tell me what ta do here ‘cause I’m completely out of my depths or whatevs, but... wait a minute...”

His chuckles sounded exhausted as he massaged his temple, looking off to the side with a furrowed brow. Your lips twitched as you reached up to catch the hand on your shoulder. “You could help me turn back over so I can get off my clothes.”

“So, you need to take off... everything,” he said slowly over a strained giggle.

“Everything that’s wet.” Your tired frown was met with an equally tired yet interested grin.

“You sure you don’t need my help with, ah —” he licked his lips “— with taking everything off?”

“I can manage. Just help me turn over.”

Jamison snickered and shook his head before grabbing you by the armpits. Taking care to avoid touching your ankle, he turned you so that you were on your back the main part of the tent. Then he propped himself on his elbow next to you. He slid his left hand down your side, lightly skimming the side of your breast, and rested it on your belly.

“ ‘Kay, darl,” he whispered, licking his lips and staring into your eyes. “Now what.”

Oh wow, was this nice. You kind of just wanted to turn and snuggle into him and then to sleep. No, wait, there was something else you needed. But what? Your mind blanked. Blank. Blanket. Sleep. Sleeping bag!

“Could you lay out the sleeping bags?”

Jamison sighed and nodded once before lethargically levering himself back up. You took the opportunity to curl your legs up over you as best you could and push the thermal pants further down. You managed to get off it off your right leg just fine. Your loud hiss when you attempted the same with the left made Jamison look over from pulling out the bag you had used last night.

His hands continued to move over the bag for a few seconds as he stared at your raised leg. You, however, were too caught up in your pain to notice. Until he released a shuddering breath of his own, that is.

You quickly laid flat, hands covering as much as possible as you watched him watch you.

“Hey, Jamison.”

He started, still staring at your legs. “Yeah?”

“The sleeping bags?”

Your sleeping bag was thrown over you within five seconds. You pulled it from your face in time to see Jamison unfurling his own bag next to you. He looked at you, biting his lip and rhythmically clutching his hands. You shivered, almost able to feel his hot gaze trace your bare legs as you unzipped your bag and laid down. His eyes traced back up your body, and then that burning gaze was locked with your own.

You had expected his expression to be another leer. Instead you were faced by one knitted with worry. “Is your ankle alright,” he asked. “I could, I dunno, build ya something ta help it if it’s buggered.”

“It’s not broken, if that’s what you’re worried about,” you said testily. “And what would you want in exchange for whatever you’d build me? Another kiss?”

Jamison snickered and shook his head with a grin that didn’t meet his eyes. “Ay, no, darl. I mean, I’d defo take a kiss if ya wanna thank me for saving your life, but, ah...” He bit his lip, looking at your ankle again. “Well, let’s just say I feel kinda bad that ya fell in the water.”

You blinked at him. “Is that your idea of an apology?”

He raised his nose in the air, looking furtive. “No. ‘Cause, uh, ‘cause I’ve not done anything wrong. Iznot _my_ fault the ice broke.” 

He chuckled again before coughing. You watched as he groaned and rubbed at his bandage, caught between wanting to help him and wanting to get an apology out of him. 

The desire for an apology won out.

“Jamison,” you said. “I’m going to put this in terms I hope you’ll understand. It was like a chain explosion.” His smile at the analogy died as soon as it appeared. “You blew up the mountain, which started the avalanche, which led to us crashing onto the lake, which led to me ending up almost drowning with a badly twisted ankle. And now I probably have hypothermia. Because you blew up the mountain.”

Jamison looked at you with wide eyes before his gaze dropped to trace across the floor. “But I, uh, I saved your life. Both with the lake and with the avalanche. Don’t that mean something?”

“It doesn’t mean anything because you were the one to create both situations. There’s a reason I compared it to a chain explosion. Your actions resulted in the avalanche, meaning you are responsible for everything that followed.”

Jamison scowled and looked away, muttering under his breath. “Oh, alright fine,” he ground out. “What d’ya want from me exactly? An apology? Well sorry I ruined everything. Again. Now you really should apologise ta me, too.”

“Why?” You gaped at him. “I didn’t do anything!”

“If not for your goddamn prying we’d still have the snowmobile!”

And with that your argument devolved into blaming each other for everything that had happened. Jamison had made you pry due to his caginess. No, you had done that due to your own damn curiosity. And so on and so forth, until it came back to Dublin with you accusing him of having taken the job that led him to you to begin with.

That’s when things changed.

Suddenly Jamison was shouting in rage, hands gesticulating wildly. He went on and on about how Junkers were always just fall guys, about how he’d been exiled. How some queen was a royal bitch. How no one had trusted him inside the walls because of some wild dog. How none of what had happened to him would have happened without the Omnics. How the Omnics had left everyone in the Outback slated for early deaths and the censure of the world.

And, above all, how none of it was his fault. How if there was any chain explosion at play it had begun with the explosion that ruined his homeland, and the fault lay with the Omnic who set it off.

This tirade over, he sat there panting before a he groaned and folded over, one hand clawed in the air over his bandage.

You opened your mouth and closed it. You were unsure how to go about this - you weren’t trained in psychology. And _clearly_ Jamison had some deep seated issues that he needed to talk about. Even if he _did_ hate when someone brought them up, which struck you as really stupid considering he was fine talking about his past if he brought it up voluntarily...

Oh wait. He was only fine with talking about it if it was voluntary. That was true for a lot of people who had lived through the Crisis. Apparently the same applied to Junkers.

And hello, conscience. How lovely to see you again.

“Hey,” you said finally.

“What now,” he hissed, still folded in half. “I’m kinda too tired ta have you picking my life apart any further here.”

“I’m sorry for prying the way I did. I just... You know so much about me. I wanted to know more about you.” Jamison processed your words slowly, sitting up to look at you with an unreadable expression.

“I’m sorry for almost —” he gulped, looking at your leg again “— almost killing you. I, I wasn’t thinking right. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m such a —”

You forced a reassuring smile, looking at the bruise on his side and finally remembering that he had said he’d broken a rib recently. Broken it in a fight with Reaper, which he had started because he was worried about you. 

“Hey,” you interrupted, “at least you _did_ save me, right?”

Jamison hummed, looking down at his boot before picking at the laces. “Damn right I did,” he exclaimed in a half-hearted voice that didn’t match his pleased smile. His snickers were equally half-hearted. He scratched the back of his head neck, staring at the floor. “Uh, by the by, you, ah, you don’t gotta owe me for that if you don’t wanna.”

You laughed lightly. “Well, good. I don’t feel like keeping score of who owes whom what.”

He snorted. “Yeah, it’s always a bit more trouble than it’s worth, innit? ‘Sides, I always lose track sooner or later.”

You looked down with a hum, twisting your fingers in your shirt. Shit, it was _soaked_. You shivered again.

“Anyway, I can’t wait to be warm,” you said, holding up your left leg and trying the trousers once more.

“Me neither, darl,” Jamison replied, back to sounding cheery. He threw his boot next to yours before and shuffled to your pack. “Oi, I think I’ll make some coffee. D’ya want any?”

“Good idea. Yes.” Your fingers fumbled over the fabric covering your foot. You hissed. “Fuck.”

You moved to try again. Then Jamison’s hands covered your own, causing you to jolt.

The press of cold metal felt good on your ankle, as did the light touch he had as he plucked at the pant leg. At long last the fabric slid off your foot. Jamison cradled your foot in his left hand as he ran the other over your leg, stopping under your knee. You covered it with one of your own to prevent it from moving further.

“Jamison,” you said in a soft voice. It took two callings before he finally turned his eyes from your bruised leg. “I’m not playing right now. Please don’t do anything. Please, I’m too tired.”

His fingers tightened briefly, causing you to grimace. “I wasn’t thinking ‘bout anything like that,” he ground out. “Strewth. I mean, yeah, I’d love to and I’d totally be all for it if we weren’t both knackered, but s’not the only thing I’m capable of thinking ‘bout.”

“Then what were you thinking of,” you asked, prying your leg free and laying it down carefully.

“Was thinking up the kinda leg I would build ya. And how it’d be nice if we matched,” was the immediate answer as he turned to go back to the stove. “So is that a no to a warm drink, then,” he said sardonically. “Or are ya gonna accuse me of trying to use it ta get a root outta ya?”

Oh, wow, that really stung for some reason.

“Sorry. Coffee, please,” you said quietly.

As the snow melted and then boiled in a pot from Jamison’s tiny, banged up mess kit, you bandaged your leg as best you could while fighting off yawns. Jamison supplied some splints - two pieces of metal pipe that he claimed had been destined for bomb making. With a simple question of why he had them, he was launched into an explanation of how he built his bombs. 

From there the conversation evolved into idle talk of each other’s weapon preferences. Then it evolved further to general preferences and it slowly dawned on you that you were enjoying this.

Once you had finished with your leg, you covered it with the sleeping bag and you gestured to Jamison. He shuffled over to sit cross-legged beside you as you cleaned and bandaged his hand and the gash on the side of his face. As you worked on the latter, his eyes gradually closed and he leaned into your touch. His face was calm except for a light twitch whenever you pressed on the wound itself. 

Justifying it as wanting to make sure no debris could get into the cut, you took the opportunity to clean the rest of his face a bit as well.

He had _freckles_. Lots of them. Primarily on his nose and cheekbones, plus a smattering on his forehead. It was... nice. He looked much younger without the grime. So much so that it suddenly wasn’t as hard to believe that he was, indeed, only twenty-five. Your hands slowly came to a standstill as you took in his peaceful features.

“Don’t stop,” Jamison whispered, eyes blinking open to stare into yours. “Feels nice.”

You stroked a thumb over his cheekbone, aware of how painfully warm his face was in your cold hands. How his stubble rasped. Jamison turned, nuzzling into your palm as he stared up at you as a sailor stares at the sea. You felt your heart jump, and slowly the world around you faded away until it was just the colour of his eyes, the shape of his smile, and the sound of your calm breathing.

One of his hands came slowly up to cup your cheek as he leaned in. Your focus dropped to his lips and the way his tongue peeked out to wet them.

A hiss came from the stove, causing you to jump and pull your hands away. Jamison huffed out an obviously false laugh and turned away. “Right, the coffee. You sure ya still want some?”

You nodded your head even as you considered saying no.

As he went about mixing the coffee, you took stock of yourself. You were incredibly tired. Yes, that was obvious - the adrenaline had long since worn off from all the death-defying stunts you’d unwillingly pulled today. God, it was even just within the last hour. At best. You would have been tired even if the lake hadn’t sapped your reserves. 

Jamison was probably only a bit less tired than you, given the similar level of stresses he’d had in the last thirty minutes or so.

It was amazing Jamison had any energy left at all. It all made him seem superhuman somehow. Maybe it had something to do with the radiation? Does radiation even make people superhuman, or does it just give them cancer? You weren’t a doctor, you didn’t know. You only knew field dressing thanks to your time as as Scout, anyway.

Or was it because he was used to this kind of stuff? But then he’d said he was tired too, hadn’t he? Was he lying again? If so, why was he not taking advantage of your current state? _Did_ he actually care about you more than you’d thought?

You shifted, suddenly feeling uncomfortable and realising why. Shit. Your thermal shirt was damp, too. And your underwear. Double shit. Okay, fight sleep long enough to get coffee. Take off the wet things to keep the sleeping bag dry. Then sleep.

You were almost too tired to move as you pulled the top flap of the sleeping bag over you. It still smelled like Jamison from this morning. And you. 

God, you needed a shower. You both did.

You remembered how Jamison had looked like a drowned rat with his wet hair plastered to his skull all those months ago in Dublin and snickered.

“What’re you laughing at,” Jamison asked as the smell of coffee filled the tent.

“The idea of you taking a shower.”

There was a moment’s silence before Jamison guffawed loudly. This was immediately followed by his renewed hissing. You forced yourself to sit up. Your knitted brow met with a strained smile as he clutched at his side again.

“Is your side okay?”

Jamison waved your question off. “Yeah, yeah, it’s just the nanny-whatzits in the bandage need ta be recharged, I think. Ol’ Zigs would do that on the reg after my blue with Zorro. Something ‘bout how bones take longer ta heal than cuts even with all her fancy tech. _Hehe..._ ”

Your hands twisted in the fabric of the sleeping bag. You bit your lip, eyeing the first aide kit to your side. “So how does it get recharged?”

“Fuck if I know, darl. I’m not a doctor.” Grabbing a spoon, he stirred the coffee again and abruptly changed the subject. “Righto, coffee’s done.”

You accepted the tin cup he handed you with a frown. “No, no, wait.” Jamison paused, looking at you sidelong with a raised brow. “Get over here.”

He crawled over, sporting a confident smirk. “Well, alright. I’m game if ya wanna make a deal for the coffee after all.” He leaned towards you, hands boxing in your hips. “I think it’s worth ‘bout the same as a reamer, don’t you?”

You pursed your lips and blinked flatly at him. “It’s my coffee to begin with.”

“No it isn’t.” Jamison smiled and leaned in closer, his voice dropping. “It came from Talon, which is my company. So, technically, it’s mine.”

The man was being a hypocrite again. Hadn’t he claimed your coat yesterday under dubious claims? Claims that were just as dubious as your claims on the coffee?

“It’s from my pack.”

“Which is also from Talon.” Jamison laughed. It quickly devolved into hissing. He pulled away to hold both hands over his bandaged side. “Ah, shit.”

Okay, enough fun and games - this hypocritical man-child was injured. Setting the coffee down in a safe location, you pulled over the first aide kit. Okay, so gauze, tape, and a bag of cotton balls. That would work to make an old school rib bandage.

“I’m going to replace that,” you said, pointing to the bandage. “It may hurt at first.”

“Ah, cheers for the warning, darl.” 

Jamison’s wheezing laugh cut off abruptly in a hiss as the adhesive was torn away, leaving angry red marks behind.

You laid the old bandage across your lap as you worked. Jamison, to his credit, obligingly held his arm out of the way as he breathed heavily and chuckled through clenched teeth. Soon you had made a rudimentary replacement.

“This feels... well, bit worse right now, honestly,” Jamison said with a grin as he clenched a fist over his side. “But, hey, least I’m breathing easier.”

You hummed, examining the Talon bandage in your lap as you drank the coffee. Seeing that you were occupied, Jamison grumbled to himself and busied himself with the pot. 

The bandage was surprisingly high tech - you had only read about this kind of technology before. Having it in your lap was interesting. You poked it, watching as the yellow healing gel within glowed for a moment before fading again. Hm. The colour reminded you of sunflowers. Maybe it was solar powered.

Oh, hang on. The cook stove was solar powered and had a battery. It wouldn’t give off any fumes. Which meant no danger of carbon monoxide poisoning. 

You told this to Jamison. He snorted. “A- _ha_ , so I was right and I _do_ know how smoke works.” 

If he was teasing you, you could tease back. “Yeah, I’m not surprised, seeing as you’re on fire more often than not.”

“Eh, whatevs. Keeps me looking hot.”

You snorted into your coffee, almost inhaling it as you laughed at the cheesy grin he shot you as he shut the vents.

“Oh, hey, maybe we should set your hair on fire, too. That way we can both stay looking hot.”

“How about no?”

“Shame. Bet you’d be a real beaut all lit up by firelight.”

Shaking your head, you turned your attention back to the Talon bandage in your lap. You weren’t even going to attempt to fight this newest blush. You turned it over again, taking another sip of coffee. Or, rather, you would have taken another sip if your cup hadn’t been empty. You looked up to ask if there was any coffee left. 

Only to discover that Jamison had been drinking directly from the pot the entire time. He blinked at you over the rim of the pot, and lowered it slowly.

“D’ya want some more? Still lots left.” He looked and sounded like he saw no problem with what he was doing.

“You’re drinking directly from it, though.”

“Well yeah,” he grinned. “I gave ya my only cup. _Heh_. S’not my fault ya didn’t pack one for yourself.”

Oh. Well then. That was... nice. You turned the cup in your warming hands, looking down at the dinted metal and picking at a spot of rust near the handle.

“I thought the MREs came with cups.” A logical defence, if a bad one. 

You yawned, jaw cracking as the sudden influx of energy from the caffeine somehow left you feeling more tired than before. Possibly because you suddenly had the energy to be able to 

Jamison fought back a yawn of his own as he spoke. “I s’pose you’re right, if ya use the packaging as one. _Heh_ , though it might fall ‘part in your hands.” His eyes traced over you again as he licked his lips and rubbed his right thigh. “So, ah, is your shirt wet still?”

You averted your eyes. Yes, your shirt was still wet, and you needed to remove it.

“Yes,” you admitted, too tired to care about how he’d take it. “But I can deal with it myself.”

“Okay.” Jamison swallowed the rest of the coffee before laying down on the sleeping bag next to yours. His hands went to the hem of his snow pants. “Well, go on then. Strip.”

You blinked as he undid the first few buttons. Your brow was so furrowed you could feel the muscles straining. “Why are you taking off your pants? I thought you said you were too tired to do anything.”

“I am.” His voice and expression were innocent and didn’t seem to match the fact that he was starting to shimmy out of his pants.

“Well then why.”

His voice sounded thorny as he grinned. “If ya must know, I kinda wanna get a look at my leg. It’s been chafing ever since we got here.”

Oh. Makes sense.

Wait.

You turned away, blushing furiously and leaving Jamison snickering. “Do you have anything on under them?”

“What would ya do if I said no?” You could hear him snicker again as the snow pants rustled.

You no idea how to answer that question. Partly because you weren’t sure if you could handle seeing him naked right now. Partly because a tiny, traitorous part of you _wanted_ to see him naked.

That part went on, as if to spite the way your heart beat faster with each thought. He was tall, strong. Somehow knew what he was doing, if his kissing skill was any indicator. What would it be like if you were to argue for more skin-to-skin contact? Purely for health reasons, of course.

He’d probably be warm to cuddle up to. Just as warm as he had been yesterday when you woke up in the hollow. And more skin to have contact with would mean more warmth. So what if it might lead somewhere? He liked you, you liked -

No. No, no, wait. No. You hadn’t meant it that way! You’d meant it as liking his... his sense of humour. Yes. Yes of _course_ that’s what you’d meant.

Because he was still the reason you were here, at (an honestly diminishing) risk of freezing and dreading what was behind you.

Your thoughts were interrupted when the snow pants landed on the pile with everything else.

Jamison was still snickering, but it sounded more hollow now. “Oi, darl, no worries. I’ve got thermals. Snagged ‘em from the storage room. I’ve got dunders on under ‘em anyway.”

Oh. Guess that’s fine, then.

You turned cautiously to look at him. Your brain worked sluggishly to take in what you saw. 

His thermal pants were looser than yours had been, and only went as far as the knee. Still, they were closely fit enough to see that he had some nice legs. Not that you hadn’t already known that. The man usually paraded around in nothing but harnesses and low-riding shorts. As if he were some sort of early 2000s punk. Or was it goth? In any case, at least now you were able to confirm that he _did_ have a well-muscled butt to match the legs.

No wonder he was totally fine with all the hiking.

It looked like it was as bony as the rest of him, however. Possibly not too fun to squeeze. Not that you were thinking of that, no.

Okay, you were thinking of it. A small part of you cried out against this but you were simply too tired to care any longer. You thought he was attractive, and you had nice conversation when one of you wasn’t getting defensive or doing something stupid. Hm. This could call for further exploration.

Maybe when this was all over you should ask Jamison on an actual date. Was he the type to bring flowers? The date would definitely end in sex, regardless of any flower-giving. Which brought you back to the potential squeeze quality of his rear.

He chuckled and waved a hand through your line of sight, breaking you momentarily from your musings. Then he said something about you and arguments and rooting and chuckled again.

You hummed, not paying attention and turning your gaze to his legs instead, thinking about how they looked in shorts. The realisation that he must have tan lines on his legs, too, reminded you of the fact he was missing the bandage right now. In its place was a normal thermal sock. This, of course, led you to a series of questions you had never really actively considered. Why did he even wear the bandage? Did he have a foot injury? 

Oh, hey, he was laughing and removing his sock for some reason, saying something about his foot and wriggling his toes in the air. No, no injury. Well then, why was there usually a bandage? 

Was it some kind of weird Australian sock substitute? Or was it just him?

His laughter broke into a coughing fit. You watched him and smiled softly in relief when the coughing subsided. Finally, he regained himself enough to crack a smile of his own. “Having a nice perv at me legs, are we?”

“A what,” you asked as you pulled up your bag and began to work off your shirt.

“A perv.”

“I’m not, I wasn’t thinking anything sexual,” you cried.

Jamison snickered. “Righto, ‘course you weren’t,” he drawled as he hiked up the fabric of the right leg further. “Anyway, darl, a perv is like spunk.”

“So it _is_ somehow sexual,” you interrupted, finally offing the shirt and throwing it with the rest. 

When Jamison’s eyes turned to you, you stuck out your tongue, having quickly zipped the bag up so your shoulders and head were the only thing he could see. This earned you a chuckle as he went on.

“No. See, perv is just taking a, a gander or a look at something that looks nice. It just sounds odd ta folks what ain’t from Oz. Like spunk being just someone what’s attractive. Though, course, both _could_ mean other things, like a perv being someone pervy and spunk being, _heh_ , exactly what you’d think.”

You hummed, starting to work off your underwear. At least the elastic meant it was easier to deal with than the thermal trousers had been, even if you did have to work it over a splint. Hooray for that small blessing. Made your current job easier.

“It’s probably odd because you use an innocent word like root to mean fuck.”

He cast you a sidelong glance, raising a brow at your movements as he rolled off his leg cover. “Nah, that one makes sense if ya think ‘bout it. ‘Sides, wasn’t it was you yanks what decided ta turn the _beautiful_ word _bang_ into something sexual? Not that that don’t make sense either, actually, when ya think ‘bout it, ‘specially since we use it too. Anyway, darl, guess this is a fair trade for the medic-ese earlier.”

You sat up slightly, finally managing to pull off your underwear. It was easier to work over your ankle than the trousers, even with the splint, but now you were at a loss of what to do with the incriminating article of clothing.

“Oi,” Jamison said. You looked over to see him massaging his shorter leg, fingers pressing into a tattoo of multicoloured creature coiled around his thigh. “I thought you was tired. The fuck are you doing in there?”

“What’s that,” you asked, pointing at the tattoo. It looked like some sort of lizard, and you couldn’t understand why he had it.

“Rainbow Serpent, according to Roadhog at least.” He snickered, gesturing to your hand with jerk of his chin. “What’s that?”

You froze, hoping against hope that the thing clutched in your hand wasn’t your underwear. You had a moment of embarrassed panic, stuttering as Jamison looked on in amusement. Turning, you threw it with the rest of the wet clothes. You missed. Instead of landing on the pile, the ball of fabric landed pathetically at the foot of your sleeping bag. As it did so, it unrolled and revealed itself to, indeed, be your underwear.

Jamison released an expectant hum and turned to pin you with a hungry look. You said the only thing you could think of to defend yourself.

“It was wet, alright?!”

Well that seemed like a shitty defence, even if it was the truth.

He grinned, dark eyes flickering over your sleeping bag. “Ya sure ya don’t want my help with the rest? ‘Cause I help ya outta ‘em if you’re too tired still.”

“I said can do it.” You straightened your shoulders in defiance. “Turn around, please.”

“Why?” Dear Lord, this man. He snickered at your flat look as he flipped to his stomach, resting on his elbows and picking at the straps of his metal arm. “There. I turned around.”

You couldn’t believe this man. “Turn to face the wall, please.”

“Now why would I do that when all I wanna see is right in front’a me?” His eyes roved over your shoulders.

“Because I asked you to.”

He sucked his teeth and shook his head as his grin deepened. “That’s a shit reason.”

You glared at him. He snickered again before shrugging and turning to face the wall. You waited a few seconds before slowly moving to unclip your bra. Jamison started loudly vocalising some tune, and you could hear him keeping the rhythm on his peg leg.

Turning you head to keep an eye on Jamison, you carefully pinned the sleeping bag over your chest with one hand. Crawling forward in ungainly movements thanks to your splint and the sleeping bag, you picked up your underwear and hid both it and your bra in your pile of wet clothes.

There. Now you could sleep. You smiled at the prospect.

Jamison coughed lightly. “Can I turn back ‘round yet?”

You hummed quietly. Too quietly? Maybe. If so he could wait until you were comfortable. 

Laying down and zipping up the sleeping bag you found that the only thing you could think of was how nice it felt. How, now that you were getting warm and had no immediately pressing matters to worry over, nothing seemed to matter. And, dear Lord, how exhausted you were from fighting off your desire to give in to slumber.

The sleeping bag was warm and comfortable. It smelled like smoke. You snuggled deeper, nosing after the scent.

 

 

“Oi, darl, can I turn around yet or not?” 

Still no reply. Goddamn it - was she ignoring him, just like everyone else? Was she? Why? He’d been a gentleman, just like that AJ that had listened to him talk about her had told him to be. Something about proper ladies, like her, preferring gents to pricks or whatevs. 

Still, it did seem to work. Maybe he should buy the man a drink after all. Wait. What was the bloke’s name again? Harvey? Or was it Matt? He was pretty sure it had started with a consonant. He wasn’t sure it mattered anymore, anyway, since whats-his-face had fallen out of the plane to his death two days ago.

Oh, wait. That meant he’d not have to buy a drink for some rando after all. He snickered. Well then, ta. More for him.

Still, he had been a gentleman with his bird. It was hard enough when she had all them clothes on, but now he’d even managed to keep himself from tearing into her like he wanted to. Hadn’t he?

Because oh, God, did he want to.

He knew she was naked behind him, covered by just a sleeping bag. It’d be so simple to turn, throw a leg over her, peel down the covers and finally see what he’d imagined so many times. She’d have flawless skin, unmarred by burns or bullets or knives. And it would feel clean and soft. So unlike anyone back home.

He reached up and drew his fingers over his face. It felt so weird without the filth. As if he were somehow more naked now. He wondered when he had last had a clean face. He ran dirty fingers over it in wonder.

He wondered if the lingering soot on his fingers would leave a new mark on his face.

He wondered whether it would leave a mark on her. He wondered what she’d look like, covered in marks he’d leave behind.

He already had a hint - the bruises on her neck from this morning from where his teeth had dug into her. He dug his teeth into his own lips at the memory.

It’d be so easy. Turn to her and sweep a leg over her, then reach out and pull down the sleeping bag. Uncover her like so much buried treasure. She’d be soft and perfect. He would stop her mouth with his, and his hand would sweep over smooth skin. She’d tremble under him, finally giving in to the want he’d seen simmering in her eyes so many times. 

No distractions, no stopping this time. Just him and her and their bodies tangling like cords. His hands sliding over her, across her chest, down to the juncture of her legs and back again. 

Her arms would come up around him. She would wind her fingers in his hair again, scratching across his back and neck as he would pinch and squeeze her. He knew well enough how her tits fit his hands - he’d copped a feel back in Dublin, back when he still hadn’t really given a shit about her, before she proved herself interesting by her meddling. Soft, round, and oh so lovely. 

How much better would they feel without her bra?

He wondered how loudly she would gasp when he bit at them. Wait, he knew how loudly she gasped when he bit her. Rather, when he bit her neck. How much louder would it be if he were to bite...?

So easy. Turn. Pull down. Stop her mouth, feel her up, mark her up. She’d give in - she’d said liked him. She’d say it again. No. She’d _moan_ it.

In his fantasies she always moaned out how badly she wanted him. Always moaned out his name, too. His real name. She’d do that now, too.

So easy. Turn. Pull. Kiss her, feel her, mark her. Mark her as his.

His. His and no one else’s.

Fuck.

The taste of copper exploded in his mouth as his teeth tore the flesh of his lips. Suddenly he remembered himself. His hand shot away from grinding against the throb in his trousers. Turning his head partway, he shot a glance over his shoulder. Pleading with a God he wasn’t sure was listening that she wasn’t paying attention.

He was disappointed to see that she was asleep. Asleep and covered to the chin, nose buried in the top of the bag.

In his mind’s eye he could see an image of her watching him. What would she do? She would throw off the cover of the sleeping bag, let him see her. She would slide a hand down her front, smiling and beckoning to him. 

She would press her fingers into herself, rock against them, moan and gasp and whine and beg for him to take her.

Some part of him was aware that he was substituting someone else’s face screwed up in pleasure and trying to map her features to it. Would she bite her tongue, like one bloke had, or a lip, like another woman had? Would her mouth gape open?

He was a greedy man. He mapped her face to all of them, imagining how deeply she’d whimper as he brought her over the edge again and again until their bodies were soaked with sweat and all he would be able to do was clutch her close. He would worship her as she deserved. Worship her with his hands, his mouth, cock, and voice until their hearts were ticking like time bombs and the world exploded into flashes of light.

It would be the best explosion of his life. Because she’d be different. She’d be asking for it, wanting it, wanting him.

Wanting him and no one else.

He hissed, flipping to his back and raking his eyes across her sleeping features.

“Oi, you asleep already?”

Her face twitched, but there was no other reaction. “So that’s a yes, then?”

He wanted to reach out, draw a finger down the side of her face. Follow the curve of her cheek up, across the eyebrow, down the nose, over her lips and chin. Trace down her throat. See what marks he’d leave, what marks he’d left.

He turned to his other side, facing her and keenly aware of how his ribs throbbed in pain as he reached out shaking fingers to brush her cheek. She twitched again and snuggled deeper into the bag.

So, so easy. He’d shake her awake, she’d smile sleepily up at him. He’d trace his hand over her pretty face, peppering kisses as he pulled down the sleeping bag. She’d arc into his touch, moaning for him. She’d be so hot, throwing the sleeping bag off her heaving body and wrapping herself around him like a snake. 

He’d go slow at first, letting her wake up. But then she’d cry for him to go faster, harder. He’d listen to her beg for him and just tease her. Tease her until she lost control, flipped him on his back, turned the tables...

He groaned, shuddering against the tightness of his trousers and wondering why the hell he had even drunk the coffee. A sudden wave of envy at her peaceful, restful state washed over him. Why did he always drink coffee right before trying to sleep?

_Know the reason don’t want to go back to sleep hate sleeping too vulnerable only ever seems to do fuck all anyway_

She probably was having nice dreams. She deserved nice dreams. Beautiful, peaceful dreams. Dreams that matched someone as kind and intelligent as she was.

She hadn’t had to explain to him things that no one had ever taken the time to explain, but she had. She hadn’t had to actually listen to him, even respond to him, but she had. She hadn’t had to help him with his leg, but she had. She hadn’t had to make sure he ate, but she had. She hadn’t had to follow him and help him through this icy hell, but she had.

She was everything he thought she’d be according to her file and more. So pretty, so intelligent, so witty, skilled, kind, interesting. So what if she was a bit thorny? Everyone was, but she’d actually been the one to hug him. That meant she cared, didn’t it?

Fuck. He wanted her. Everything she was, everything she could be, and everything she would be. 

He wanted her entirety. A little slice of normalcy and peace in his life. He wanted her as his own. 

He wanted her.

And it would be _so easy to take her_

So why wasn’t he?

Finders keepers, yeah?

He turned further, crawling over her to plant his hands a few inches from her shoulders. Staring down, he could see the curve of her throat just below the lip of the sleeping bag. He could see the places his teeth had scraped over her this morning. He was aware his breath was coming out in pants more from the way his ribs shifted than by the sound.

She said she’d like him. She’d say it now.

He raised a hand to turn her face fully into the open.

So, so pretty. His fingers trembled as he traced them along her jaw, watching her twitch again in her sleep.

She’d love the way he’d make her explode. Again and again. Like a chain explosion.

Wait, hang on. She’d said something about that. What had it been? Something about explosions. No. Chain explosions. Chains of actions, chains of reactions. He’d be responsible for them all. 

_My fault_

Think it through.

She’d said she liked him, yes. But she’d also said she wasn’t playing. Not here. Not now.

 _Maybe if she likes it Know enough to make sure she’d like it_

No. The very idea of using her body against her made him laugh bitterly. 

No. No, think through. What would be more likely? That she’d wake up wet for him, or that she’d wake up and they’d have a blue to end all blues? People were easy to figure, if you took the time. Just like tracking an animal. Use the clues to find out where they’d go. So what clues did he have?

She’d said she liked him. Sure she had gotten angry at him later, but she hadn’t denied that she liked him.

She liked him. One point towards being likely to have a naughty if he woke her.

She’d said she wasn’t playing. Said she was tired. Had frozen in embarrassment when he’d taken off his trousers. Had done her best to keep hidden from his gaze. Had demanded that he turn around when removing her bra. Had zipped up the sleeping bag to her chin...

Many points towards throwing a wobbly.

One versus many.

He may be shit at maths, but he knows how scales and balances work. Seen them be used, both rigged and not, one too many times. And one is definitely outweighed by many. 

_But if the one weighs more_

One is not equal to many.

“Fuck me, darl,” he found himself whispering as he moved away from her. “I wish you were awake for this, so’s you could see how good of a gentleman I’m being.”

She twitched again and rolled to her side, facing away from him.

He cackled to himself, ignoring the pain in his side that came with it. Of course she’d turn away at that, even if she weren’t asleep. Probably blush over it too and make some hilarious little comeback. But he loved her hilarious little comebacks and her blush was adorable. And arousing. Adorable-arousing. Adorousing. He cackled again, proud of himself. 

He was the best inventor. He’d invented a word. Add it to the list, along with... Well there were others. But he couldn’t remember them right now. Why couldn’t he remember his own creations?

He yawned. Oh, right. If not for the coffee he would’ve hit the sack long ago. Maybe he should try to sleep. 

He wrapped his own sleeping bag around his body, unclipping his arm and setting it aside. He absently massaged the stump of his arm and glanced at the fluffy orange log that was his bird. He wanted to hold her, just to feel her breathe and know that she was alive. That he hadn’t fucked up again. Plus, wouldn’t she be warmer if she had two sleeping bags over her?

He followed the thought without looking back.

Laying on his side, he pulled her over to her back and curled the flaps of his sleeping bag around her. Gently he laid the side of his face on top of her head. He could smell her. She smelled nice. He laughed softly. Of course she did. He edged closer, throwing his leg partway over hers and laying his arm across what was approximately her midriff. There. Now they _she_ would get warmer faster, even if it wasn’t skin-to-skin contact.

Well. It was meant innocently, even if his thoughts quickly went elsewhere. And isn’t it the thought that counts?

It wasn’t his fault that he could feel the outline of her legs through the bags, or that the curve of her hip lined up with his crotch so well. It felt good. He wanted more. He held her closer, mouth falling open as he did so. 

It wasn’t his fault that she felt so good, smelled so good. Because of course she did. What would she smell like after he’d had her? She’d smell a bit like him, a bit like something that was his. And he’d smell a bit like her, a bit like something good (something that was hers). Biting back a groan, he buried his face into her hair. His lips caught the shell of her ear. He could bite it, maybe. If he did it softly enough would she even notice?

She groaned in her sleep. The unhappy note made him freeze. Pulling up partway, he noticed that her once peaceful features now looked troubled.

No. He shouldn’t be doing this. He shot away from her, admitting at last that attempting sleep was pointless. Holy goddamn shit, this was fucked up. He was fucked up. _So why does it matter Just turn back to her Take her as mine Tear into her like the wild dog they wanted me to be_

Okay, no, stop. Think it through. Prove he was a gentleman. Er... Prove that he could be a gentleman. For the memory of what’s-his-face.

But how?

Goddamn he wanted to flog himself. He could do it here, if he were quiet... No. Think through. He knows he can’t be quiet. He’d have to bite his tongue half off to avoid loudly gasping her name. But he’d fail, like he always did. Then she’d wake up and... probably not be too happy with him, if he were to be honest.

No. Can’t do it here. He’d have to leave for a bit.

“Okay, darl.” He coughed, clearing the rasp from his voice and putting on a cheery voice. “Okay, so here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna go walkabout for a bit, bring me traps. See if I can’t find something that don’t need to be mixed with water ta eat for lunch. Deal with some, ah, pressing matters ‘long the way.”

She hummed, stirring slightly. He shushed her, smoothing his hand over her brow. “Ay, no worries, love. I won’t be gone long. Hell, may even get back ‘fore ya wake up. I’ll make sure ta start on lunch, make more coffee so you don’t gotta do anything but sit there and look pretty.”

She hummed again, turning into his touch. He smiled and pressed his lips to her forehead.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll make sure ta keep track of where the tent is. Ain’t the first time I’ve gone on a walkabout, darl. I know how ta retrace my steps, don’t worry.”

He brushed his fingers down her cheek. An image of an animated film he’d seen long ago popped into his head. _Where was his uncle his uncle was out getting supplies his uncle would come back in a day or so he just had to wait a little bit longer_ The film was of a sleeping princess and a prince who woke her with a kiss. They’d gotten married and lived happily ever after.

He pressed his lips to hers. She didn’t stir. Of course she didn’t. He wasn’t a prince.

He got dressed faster than he ever had in his life.

Cripes it was colder outside than he remembered. Who the fuck decided that living in a place where the air is so cold it hurts was a good idea? Who was it? Was it an Omnic? Was it some mad cunt who couldn’t feel the cold? He didn’t know, but he wanted to go back in time and solve all his current problems by blowing them up. 

Maybe then that rust bucket that Overwatch had wanted would’ve chosen somewhere smart to hide. Somewhere like Death Valley, or the Sahara, or, hell, even back in Atacama. 

Somewhere warm, in any case.

Oh bloody fuck. The wind felt like it was trying to stab him. Well _shit_ if that didn’t just ruin any desire he had to undo his strides and have a wank. If his side hadn’t shot with pain as he drew in a breath, he would have shouted in frustration.

He hated this. He hated the snow. He hated the cold. He hated the wind. He hated how white it all was. He hated how many clothes he had on. How did people live like this? This was absolutely the worst place he’d ever been to.

He couldn’t wait to get back to Talon HQ. He’d demand a holiday. So what if they hadn’t snatched the damn tin head? Fuck whatever they were up to, and if any of them tried to stop him he would shove a grenade up their ass. 

He was going to go back to Oz. He’d finally blow up the Queen like he had planned to all along, hunt some ‘roos, laze about in the sun. Be comfortably nuddy in the heat of the upcoming summer. Maybe even rob a train again. 

It would be an ace holiday.

He should see about bringing her along with him. They could spend time together where it didn’t feel like the air was trying to put a spider bite to shame.

He could show her all the funny ruins he’d made up stories about (especially the ones with the dancing shadow people), get Roadhog to show her some Dreamings, show her his favourite hunting grounds. Maybe show her Junkertown. After he’d blown up the Queen, of course. 

He’d defo take her to see a match at the Scrapyard. Ooh, he’d have to see if she’d be interested in fighting in a team match with him and Roadhog. Having a taser on his side would make things more fun. He’d provide the distraction, she’d sneak in and shock ‘em, Roadhog would deal with those what she didn’t get. She’d kiss him while celebrating their victory, he and Roadhog would split the prize.

Then he’d take her to his shack and kiss her some more. Finally get her into his bed (or his couch, however she’d want to call it) and really celebrate their victory by at long last getting down to the business of banging her up...

It would be a fucking ace holiday.

None of this snow bullshit.

His fingers were itching. God fuck did he want to kill something. Blow something up. Maybe that fucker who was laughing earlier.

He giggled. No, he knew that fucker was him. And while the thought was kind of appealing, it would also kind of going against his promise to be back soon.

Back with something to eat that didn’t come from a can or a box. That shit was expensive. If he managed to save some for when he got back home, he’d be set for a few months. Then he could buy so many more chems for his projects.

Okay. Hunt. He could do this. His uncle had taught him the basics. What followed had perfected the skill. Look for prints, look for prints...

There. A scrabbling of tiny footprints leading up to a mass of them around a hole in the ground between two boulders. Some sort of rabbit or rat, from the looks of things. Digging a small hole in the snow, he placed a trap where the tracks were heaviest and carefully covered the teeth. Finally he grabbed some nearby grass and laid it as bait, hoping that it was the sort of stuff whatever was in that hole ate. 

There. The hunter had laid a trap for his prey.

Glancing up at a nearby outcropping, he set his mouth in determination. Climbing it was easy. It was his desire to scream at the cold wind and the way his ribs shifted that took a lot of focus.

He sat there, nearly motionless, for at least ten minutes before a small, reddish rodent with large ears and no tail came snuffling out of the den. His fingers clenched the rock beneath him, digging into the crust of snow. Okay, it was smaller than what he’d wanted, but there was still some good meat on those bones. Nice amount of fat, too.

The rabbit-rat sniffed the air, looking this way and that, before edging towards the trap. He bit his tongue. Come on, damn you, _just a bit further just wanna see the trap snap and make you bleed for making me wait so long in the bloody snow you stupid little_

He groaned when it disappeared back into the hole. _Crap_ Okay, no, that was fine, it’d be back in a few minutes. Goddamn trap was right outside its den.

And sure enough it was, this time heading straight towards the bait.

The thing shrieked as the teeth of the trap tore into it, catching one of its legs. It writhed and tried to pull away, wrenching the trapped limb at a terrible angle as it shrieked again.

He laughed, punching his fists into the air and whooping. “Got’cha, you stupid little bugger!”

Skidding down the rocks, he drummed his fingers together in excitement as he neared his catch with a grin. The small rodent froze, looked up at him with a ring of white around its black eyes.

It bit him when he reached towards it. He pulled back, shaking his hand and hissing. Shit, right. Right hand for live prey.

The thing squirmed against the press of his unfeeling prosthetic. He watched it curiously as he opened the trap and tucked it away. Then, slowly, he brought his left hand to the small thing. He could feel the tiny heart fluttering against his hand through his glove, the tiny ribs spasming as the thing shrieked once more.

He shifted to place one hand around its head and the other around its shoulders. A single twist, a small series of pops, and the shrieking stopped.

Grinning down at his catch, he toed fresh, white snow over the tiny spots of red.

Oh, she was going to like this. Whatever this was. Lots of fat, a good amount of muscle. Good eating. He eyed the fur and brushed it against his cheek. Ooh, it was soft as it dragged across his stubble. He should skin it. It’d be worth heaps. Soft things like this are always worth heaps until they were ruined either by being passed around a few too many times, or carved up.

It’d be worth heaps. Could build so many bombs with what he’d get for it. 

Shit, now he just had to skin this thing. And keep it. For a while, anyway, just until he managed to go on holiday.

He laughed, pulling out some string from his bag to tie the carcass to his belt. Tightening the knot until it creaked, he could barely contain his grin as he hopped about in glee. 

He had provided for his bird by catching this... whatever. He had succeeded in providing tucker. He had proven he could do it. Now there was no way she could deny now that he was able to survive, protect, and provide. No way she could ignore how great a catch that made —

Oh, hey, what’s that?

Some weird dense clouds were billowing from over the next rock-capped hill. Fire? He sniffed the air. No, not fire. That was a different smell. Wait a minute. He knew that smell! 

Why did that cloud smell like that though? He bit his lip, looking back in the direction he’d come from. He’d been gone a long time by now. Should he go back?

This hill was easier to climb than the outcropping had been. Peeking out over it, his eyes widened. A grin grew on his face as he slid back down, running towards camp. 

Oh, just wait until she saw this.

 

 

You woke after some time from your nap, feeling the familiar kick of caffeine in your system. You groaned, turning to your back and flinging an arm over your face. 

You hissed not a moment later as your ankle caught on the fabric of your sleeping bag. “Shit...”

Before you thought it through, you were sitting up and throwing the sleeping bag off to massage at your leg. Dear god, you needed to shave. Turning, you checked your armpits. Also prickly. Damn.

Something seemed off, for some reason. You ran a hand down your face, suddenly realising what it was. You were naked. You gathered the sleeping bag around your chest with a gasp.

No, wait, that was normal. You had stripped yourself down. And then napped, wrapped up in your sleeping bag.

Dear Lord, if Jamison saw you like this, he’d... You bit your lip at the thought of what he’d do.

Where was he, anyway.

Oh, wait, that’s what was weird. You were alone.

“Jamison,” you called out. You repeated it, louder. As if he’d come running.

Honestly, he probably _would_. He’d come running and find you naked. You imagined the look of shock he’d have, how quickly it would melt away to a clear want, how he’d pull the sleeping bag away and —

No, no. Don’t think of that. You snatched you hand back away from where it had been trailing dangerously close to the juncture of your legs. Don’t think of that when you didn’t know where the hell he was. Or, more importantly, when he’d be back.

You filed that thought away for later fantasising. Later, when you were safely back in Colorado and Jamison was off wherever Talon holed up and only Athena’s radios could hear you.

You wondered vaguely if she kept logs of what her radios overheard and shook the thought away. No - surely not. That would just be silly. Especially because it would mean that Jamison had a bunch of transcripts of you getting off and calling out ‘Junkrat.’

Well. Add that to the list of things to eventually ask him. Or not. You weren’t sure if you’d be able to handle the embarrassment.

The stove was still puttering away, making the tent as warm as if you had been sitting before a bonfire for hours. Jamison’s clothes were missing, and yours were still in a wet pile in the entryway. You shrugged, reaching for them. May as well lay out the essentials to dry.

Fortunately with Jamison gone there was a lot of room to spread out your clothes. Soon you had your coat, snow pants, socks, underwear, and thermals laid out around you or tied to the sealed vent openings on the sides of the tent. You felt as if you were in some ancient laundry room.

Batting idly at the bra hanging above your head, you wondered what Jamison would say to all this. No, wait, no. Why are you imagining what his reaction would be so much? You should be glad he’s gone after so much time spent in his presence. That was what you had wanted, wasn’t it? To be away from him?

Dear Lord, this was boring. 

You didn’t want to admit it, but you had grown accustomed to Jamison’s silly remarks and antics. He was turning out to be a huge dork. A dangerous, attractive dork who was both crazy and crazy about you. 

No, no, just dangerous and crazy - he’d endangered you several times over the past three days.

But then... he’d also saved you from the lake. He’d saved you from the avalanche. He’d kept you from fainting by sharing his tea. He’d pushed you into a safe alcove in the ravine. He’d dropped his grenade launcher, a weapon you’d seen him run through heavy gunfire to recover, in order to save you. 

He’d stopped in the middle of a fight to help you, an opponent, in an attempt to save you from falling to your death. He’d saved you from falling to your death.

And, if his story was to be believed, he’d also tried to listen to you back in Dublin and preserve the archive. But he had failed, because he had been worried that you might be seen as a loose end to cut.

Every single time his actions had put you in danger, he’d gone out of his way to help or protect you. Why?

Because he liked you. And you, you liked him? Part of you wanted to deny it still. 

Deny how tracking him had become less about revenge and more about just seeing what he was up to after the third interrupted heist. Deny how you had watched with bated breath each time the police had shot at him and Roadhog, caught between wanting him to make another miraculous escape and wanting him to be caught. Deny how you had imagined how he’d...

Okay, be honest with yourself.

He was attractive. He was funny. He was a downright genius with machines. He could be a good conversationalist (even if he _did_ take things in a sexual direction most times). 

You missed the chatter as your ears were filled with nothing but the wind and your breathing.

You shook your head. No. It’s not like you were missing _him_ , or anything. You were glad he wasn’t here. It wasn’t like you were wishing he’d hurry up and get back from wherever he went and let you know that he hadn’t had some sort of fall or encounter with a bear or wolf... No. Because that would mean you liked him and, okay you liked him. You liked him and you wanted to know he was safe. 

Your stomach growled, cutting through your thoughts. Releasing a sigh, you shelved these thoughts. Food. Food was important to get back up your energy stores.

With a sigh, you unzipped the sleeping bag fully and crawled over to your pack, gingerly avoiding putting too much pressure on your bruised knee.

You rustled through the pack, dimly aware of the sound of something running through the snow. No, wait, that was something running _towards_ the tent. Oh, crap, what if it was a wild animal? Had the coffee somehow attracted snow leopards?

“Oi, darl! Darl, you’ll never guess what I found!” Oh, good it was just Jamison. 

“It’ll be an ace surprise! Are you awake yet?” Wait a minute.

“If not, get up, sleepy head!” Oh _crap,_ it was _Jamison._

“C’mon, it’s something that’ll be right fucking ripper!” It was Jamison, and you were _still naked._

His knees loudly hit the snow outside the door and you could see his shadow through the fabric. The zipper of the door started shooting up.

“D-don’t come in,” you shouted, catching it and tugging in the opposite direction.

It jumped in your hand once before you managed to pull it down. “Why the hell not?! I’ve got - oh.” 

Two shadowed handprints appeared on the door as Jamison pressed against it. “You’ve got more energy now, right? ‘Cause the h— the, _heh_ surprise can wait if you’re up and about and still needing some skin-ta-skin contact, if you know what I mean.”

His suggestive tone brought to mind how you’d wondered over his tan lines and where they led.

But now that he was here again, you found you only wondered and worried over how giving in would change things. Clearing your throat, you continued. “I’m not decent, please wait for a moment.”

“I _know_. S’why I want in,” Jamison said, hands now trying to curl into fists on the synthetic fabric. “And I fucking _hate_ waiting.” He groaned and laughed, the sounds combining in a way that made your pulse jump as his head brushed the side of the tent. “Let me in. C’mon, I’ll make it worth your while.”

You bit your lip, looking at the zipper still clutched in your hand. You debated between opening it, to hell with your worries, and trying to get dressed, hoping he’d not reopen it halfway through. It’d be easy for him to reopen. After all, he’d closed it after he’d left. Left you, naked and asleep and vulnerable, alone in the tent.

A sudden question nagged you.

“No. Did you do anything to me in my sleep?”

Jamison’s chuckling died down. “No. Well, yes. I mean, it was just a kiss! A, a small kiss. Or, or two. _Hehehe_... I mean, one of them wasn’t even to your lips! Oh, uh, and it wasn’t anywhere, uh, _improper_ neither. _Heh..._ Just your forehead. And your lips, yeah. _Heh..._ B-but I swear I was a perfect gentleman otherwise.”

Well _that_ sounded suspiciously like lying. He groaned when you asked.

“I’m not lying, I swear ta God.” His whine was plaintive and his hair made a rasping noise against the tent as he lent forward. “I didn’t do nothing. Nothing ‘cept kiss you. And try ta sleep with you, but —”

“You what?!”

“I, I didn’t do anything!” Okay, this time he sounded desperate, almost tripping over his words in his haste to speak. “I swear! I just tried to sleep with you. Well, not _with_ you, with you, but, uh, _next_ ta you. Ta help you warm up. _Heh_... I-I didn’t do anything though, I swear! Didn’t move your sleeping bag one fucking centimetre. Wrapped meself and my own bag ‘round the both of us, outside your bag, ta make that clear, thinking it’d help you with the hypothermia. But I couldn’t stop thinking ‘bout how you was naked and then I tried ta go off and flog meself but it ended up with me going ‘like fuck am I having a wank when the wind feels like a razor blade’ and then I decided to go walkabout like I’d told you I would and then —”

“Alright, alright,” you said. “I believe you. But please, I’m not playing. Wait until I open the door myself.”

Jamison’s shadow moved away from the door. You could see it shift, and... Dear Lord, he was literally sitting on his hands. “Righto, darl. No worries. But ya know, _haha_ it is _really_ fucking cold out here. And I wasn’t lying ‘bout the razor wind thing —”

You hastily dressed, listening to him moan about the cold and the wind in an obvious attempt to guilt you into opening the door for him. Fortunately your underthings and thermals were dry enough to not be dangerous to put on. The same could not be said for the rest of your clothes, however.

Well, it could be worse you told to yourself as you looked over the skin-tight yet fully covering ensemble.

“— and I trekked _all_ the way ta that valley over there and sat in the _snow_ for what felt like _forever_ ta catch you something grouse ta —”

“You caught me something,” you asked, unzipping the door.

Jamison shoved his way in immediately and was greatly disappointed to find you at least marginally clothed. “Strewth, you got your clobber on quick.”

“What did you catch,” you asked, already knowing the answer.

His face broke into a giddy smile. “Oh, right! _Haha!_ Dunno what it is. Some kinda rabbit or rat, I think. But I caught it!” And then the thing was swinging in your face, swinging from his metal hand. “Ta-dah!”

You reached out gingerly, almost dreading to touch it. The carcass’s sheer momentum brought the fur to brush your fingers. It was soft and still warm. A memory stirred as you brushed your fingertips across the back, smoothing the fur down.

“It’s a pika,” you said. “Some of the monks pointed a burrow out to me at the temple.” 

You caught hold of it, looking the animal over out of curiosity as Jamison went on, gesturing animatedly with his other hand as he explained how he’d laid the trap and that this proved something about him. Something about his being able to provide for you.

“Yes, this does count as providing for me,” you said, dropping it. “But what do you want to do with it?”

“Skin it.” Jamison’s teeth gleamed sharply. “Skin it and eat it.”

You looked doubtfully at the pika. Your stomach growled. “I don’t know if there’s enough to share. That can’t be more than eight inches at best.”

Jamison frowned and held it up to glare at it. “Nah, it’s ‘bout the size of a small rabbit. If we split it here —” He drew a finger down the middle “— we both get half a, uh, pika, ya said it was? ‘Sides, iznot like I can’t catch another.”

“Wait, hang on.” Another thought had struck. “Why did you catch that when we already _have_ food?”

Jamison’s eyes were wide as he looked between you and the rabbit with pursed lips. “I was thinking we could trade the banjos and rat packs for chems and meds and the like once we get ta Straya.”

You weren’t sure that was actual English. “Wait, what would we be trading? We don’t have any banjos.”

“Well then what’d we have for brekkie?” He kept a straight face for all of three seconds before breaking into giggles. “You should see the look on your face. _Hehehe!_ Banjos and rat packs are the kinda pre-prepped, just add water military tucker what we’ve got right there.”

“Oh,” you said as he jerked a thumb towards your pack. “But those are full meals. We’d only have meat if we were to eat —”

“I slave away over a cold trap for hours and this is the thanks I get?” He sniffed dramatically, dabbing at his eye with the rabbit’s shoulder. “Brings a tear to me eye.”

Hours? Looking curiously at his theatrics, you crawled to a nearby vent and peeked out. No, the sun was just beyond about halfway through the sky based on what you could see. Meaning it had been at best one hour. Which meant he was being dramatic for the sake of being dramatic. Because of course he was.

“You really should consider giving up your life of crime and joining a theater company, seeing how showy you are,” you said as you turned back to Jamison’s take on something reminiscent of a distressed 1950s housewife. “You’d be a good Pirate King.”

He blinked at you and lit up like a light. “For it is, it is a glorious thing to be the Pirate King.”

“It is. Hurrah for our Pirate King.” You smiled in return as you lilted out the line jokingly.

Jamison’s grin took on a mercenary quality. “Oh, I like the sound of that. And if I’m the one ta do in dear ol’ Queenie...”

Well _that_ changed directions quickly. “Who?”

“Queen of Junkertown. Don’t you worry none ‘bout that, though. I’ll take care of her.” Jamison finally laid the rabbit down just before your knees and shifted to sit crosslegged. “So are we gonna eat what I caught or is it going ta go ta waste?”

You looked down at his offering, still unsure about the fact there was a freaking dead animal _right there_. “Wasting it _would_ be a bad idea,” you said at length. “Which packs did you get the coffee from? We can at least pull the side dishes from them and have something to eat with the rabbit.”

“Bloody oath! Righto, lessee here.” He turned to pull out the torn open MREs, tossing one over his shoulder to you. “Chicken Stew —” You fumbled it in an attempt to keep it from hitting you in the face. “— and Beef Stew. Shit, why the fuck are there so many stews in here?”

You shrugged. “I just grabbed what was available. Apparently someone in Talon likes stew.”

“I bet it’s Ziggy Stardust,” Jamison said, sniggering as he dumped the contents of the bag into his lap.

“Your medic?” You assumed it was the medic, at least. “Why would she like stew?

You tore the bag open further and dug through it to discover two honey-oat granola bars, some trail mix, and a packet of dried peaches.

“ ‘Cause every fucking pub Roadhog and I dropped in at in Ireland had stew on the damn menu.” He rifled through the packets and pulled out the brownie packet from the mess with a triumphant laugh. “There y’are, ya little bastard! _Haha_!”

“So she’s Irish?”

“Yep. Got red hair ‘n everything.” Jamison pressed his lips together as he began dividing the rest of his packets into piles. “I ain’t ever fucking calling her Blue for it though.”

“Why not,” you asked. “Is Blue something important?”

Jamison paused, looking pensive and spoke in a halting voice. “Blue is, was, my uncle’s nickname. It’s a military nickname for someone with red hair from back when he was a chicken strangler. Er, special ops. Never told me what unit he was with, or any stories ‘bout his time with ‘em beyond what it was like travelling ‘cross Oz ta get to a new post. But he told me that much at least.”

Oh. Well, what to say to that. You ended up sharing a story of someone back home who had fought in the Omnic Crisis and what they had shared from their time in the army. Then you, finally, asked what should be done with the pika.

Jamison fixed you with a long, questioning look. Then he blinked. “Oh, do _you_ wanna butcher it? I know ya know how to, what with your Scouts and all that. Bet you’re just waiting ta feel them bones crack as you pull the ribcage apart and —”

“Okay, first of all, ew? I’ve never _actually_ butchered something when I was a Scout. We went to a butchers and they walked us through the process without actually —”

“Well fuck me.” Jamison was tearing open the brownie with his teeth. “Ain’t ya even a bit curious ‘bout what it’d be like?”

Morbid curiosity was indeed there, yes. In more than one way as you watched him lick his lip and spit out a sliver of wrapper. 

“I don’t know how to skin it,” you said, feeling like you were grasping at straws.

“Eh, that’s fine. I’ll do that,” Jamison said around a mouthful of chocolate. “I’ll need the head though. Don’t look like there’s much meat there, anyway, unless she’s got some jacked chomping muscles.”

Then he was pulling off his glove and pulling a wicked looking knife from his pouch. It was about a foot long altogether, you’d guess, and rusted a deep orange on the back of the blade. The blade edge, by comparison, was silvery and slightly pitted from use. It had no handle - instead a section was wrapped in a combination of tape and cloth of indeterminate colour.

Humming a pop song you recognised from the radio, he slid the knife though the fur and set to work. It was much less cute when it was just a mass of muscle and bone in the shape of a pika. Especially after he pulled the fur from the head and scraped the neck flesh away until the skull came off in his hand.

You couldn’t turn your eyes away. It was like watching a car wreck.

Finally, Jamison wrapped the pelt up into a small ball and set the head aside. Flipping the knife in his hand, he held the blade and offered it to you. “There ya go, darl. All ready for you.”

A tremor ran through your fingers as you took it. “You’ll tell me if I’m screwing up, right?”

He laughed and wiped his grimy hands on his snow pants. “Sure. You won’t, though.”

You made the first cut, trying to recall what the butcher had explained and what you had read in books. It was slimy and warm and the tent quickly filled with the metallic scent of blood. Jamison just watched you, eating his granola bar and chatting idly, occasionally telling you how well you were doing or telling you to do something with a bit more force. As you sliced up the legs, he busied himself with sorting through the organs where you’d dropped them on the floor.

The task grew easier the carcass came to resemble less what was once a living animal and more the kind of stuff you’d seen packaged in the meat aisle.

By the time you finished, Jamison was already melting snow and setting a tiny metal plate on the stove. You handed the pieces over to him as he asked for them and set about wiping down the tent while he cooked. You ate, chatting about this and that over the sound of sizzling meat and boiling water.

Then more coffee was mixed and the various cuts of meat dished out. You were handed the smaller plate from the mess kit, on which he had placed the heart, kidneys, and liver in addition to the side he had promised. You poked at the organs, taking tiny tentative bites with the fork you’d been provided. After a while Jamison pinched them off your plate and plopped them into his mouth, saying you were wasting them by just picking at them. 

Your stomach full, you turned to test your jumpers and coat again as Jamison opened the door and scrubbed a handful of snow over the pans. Oh, good. The quick dry fabrics were doing their job and all your jumpers were dry now. You donned them as Jamison left with the pika’s feet, ears, and other discarded parts.

“So, darl, like I said, I’ve got a surprise for you,” he announced upon his return as he zipped up the door. “I’m real fucking excited ta show it to ya, and I’m sure you’ll like this one.”

You had no idea what it could be and weren’t sure if that was a good thing. “It’s not something dangerous, is it?”

“No. Well, don’t think so at least.” He grinned and began haphazardly shoving things into your pack. “Last time I saw something like this was in, uh, the Valley of Hell.”

You tested your coat again. Still damp. But hey, at least your scarf wasn’t. “Where’s that and what happened to my hat?”

“The lake ate it. As for the valley, it’s in Hokkaido. Me and Roadhog found it in after we crashed the Sapporo Sweets Competition.” Laughing, he smiled wistfully. “So many tiny cakes and bikkies. Damn, was it delicious. Oh, hey, I should take ya there! ‘Course you’d need to be quick ‘bout grabbing the sweets, but the best stuff’s just slap-bang ‘cross from this great, big window. Unless they’ve changed the layout, o‘course.”

“Or we could get tickets,” you pointed out, pulling on your boot. Oh, fuck, it was still damp. You should have checked it before putting it on.

Jamison sucked his teeth. “Nah, that’s boring. ‘Sides, ya hafta wait in line then, and I’m sure the suits’ll’ve got to the best stuff ‘fore we get a chance. Much easier to go through a window. _Haha_ , nobody ever expects it.”

You had more than just an inkling of _how_ he’d managed to crash the competition. Still... “Did you use that big window as an entry point?”

“Yep!” Jamison switched off the stove and, unzipping the door, chucked it outside into the snow hot-plate side down. Your bag landed next to it some scant seconds later. “Buncha suits and pollies running every which way, a few randos here and there. Had to pick some glass outta the punch, but it was ripper.”

The casualness with which he discussed committing acts of terror should have been worrying, but you had met him while he was committing one. Beyond that, you knew from keeping an eye on him that he didn’t actively target civilians. Unless they could directly affect his goal somehow, like bank tellers. Then all bets were off.

Hm... You probably would be taken to a psychologist after all of this whether you liked it or not.

Shaking these thoughts from your head, you opted for glaring at your other boot, trying to decide what to do with it.

“How did you manage to get up to the window?”

“Eh, Roadhog drove his bike across a few roofs. It was an ace holiday. Oh!” He shot up, rubbing his hands together excitedly. “By the by, darl, how would _you_ like ta come with _me_ to Oz?”

“Are you finally asking instead of just assuming I’d go with you?” You finally opted to toss the boot aside and shot Jamison a bemused look.

He answered it by giggling and scratching the back of his head. “Maybe.” Recovering himself, he leaned forward, hands on his knees and a smile on his face. “Well? Would ya?”

You considered it, and immediately your mind was flooded with flurry of potential outcomes. Both positive and negative, regardless of if you declined to go and if you agreed. “I-I’ll have to think about it.”

“So that’s a yes?” Bless his hopeful little heart.

“I’ll think about it.” You curled your toes in your boot, feeling the discomfort of the dampness start to seep in. “Hey, is where we’re going warm at least?”

Jamison grinned, eyes crinkling in glee either over your answer or being reminded of the surprise. “Yes.”

“Well that’s a relief. But I can see a small problem with all this,” you said. “I can’t really walk.”

His eyes followed your outstretched finger to your bandaged ankle. “Oh, shit, you’re right.” He rested his chin in his hand, drumming his fingers against his nose in thought. Then, shooting up and snapping his fingers, he said, “I know! I’ll carry you.”

You could see this being a bad idea for several reasons. Namely that if he hadn’t slept at _all_ , he _would_ drop you at some point. The deep bags under his eyes and the way his hands tremored lightly spoke to that. “No.” He groaned and returned to his thinking position. Your eyes fell to the snowmobile skids that stuck out of his side pouch. “What about building some sort of sled with those and the tent poles?”

Jamison hummed, reaching back and pulling out a skid to examine it without altering his pose. “Yeah, alright. That’d work.”

You hobbled out of the tent and sat on your pack, tying your spare boot to a belt loop on your snow pants as you wrapped your sleeping bag around your shoulders. Jamison took down the tent, and you set about describing what shape he could be aiming for. 

As you had suspected would be the case, he was able to quickly grasp this new information and a very rudimentary sled created from the flysheet in the span of maybe ten minutes. It was small and squarish, with just enough space for you to sit crosslegged. The fly lines extended from it as a lead, and Jamison tested dragging it around a bit before declaring it shit but shit that would work.

Then you were in the sled and being pulled behind him as you left the cleaned up campsite, a depression in the snow and the wrappers the Jamison refused to pick up the only signs you had been there. 

As you went along, you spoke of the various places the two of you had visited. He, of course, had a larger number of places to list, but you had a lot of stories of interacting with the location in ways that his never managed. Jamison seemed quieted by the realisation that the quieter approach tended to allow deeper exploration of an area. You were equally quieted to hear of all the places he had been to and seen.

However then he asked why there seemed to be Egyptian art and objects in every single museum he robbed. Telling him the origin of museums, that they had started as displays of ‘curious’ objects stolen from faraway lands for and by the elite, made him scoff and question why his theft was any different. This, of course, led to a debate over claims and modern loaning processes. Jamison remained stubbornly convinced that, in light of this history, his actions were no different and therefore would one day be applauded.

Yeah, they’d be applauded alright. Applauded with confused feelings and ethical questions.

After perhaps fifty minutes of this, Jamison turned to say, “Okay, darl, it’s just over that hill there.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, bowing slightly under the weight of the pack on his back. The hill in question was too rocky for the sled. “I’ll carry you from here. Don’t see no other way ta do it, ta be honest.”

You couldn’t either. You stared curiously at the billowing cloud or smoke, wondering what it could be. Then the wind changed directions. It smelled like both a fart and eggs. You racked your brain for where to place it.

“That’s it, isn’t it,” you said, standing on one leg and holding the sled as Jamison bent down to pick you up. His arms trembled terribly, but didn’t give. 

He grinned. “Yep. Just a wait a tick and you’ll see what it is.”

Craning your neck around as he carried you up the hill, you felt anticipation surge the further you were able to see over the ridge. The first thing that caught your eye was the snow-covered roof of a small stone cabin. Then came the source of the cloud and you suddenly couldn’t hold back a grin.

A hot spring. Jamison had found and brought you to a hot spring. And there was a cabin, which meant possible supplies in addition to shelter. And that meant that soon you would be warm, and dry, and wouldn’t have to worry about whether not being able to feel your toes meant frostbite, and you could use the hot spring.

You blathered on about this with Jamison, who looked almost as if he would burst a seam for all the pride he was taking in all this. He set you on the stoop and peeked in the windows, saying, “Yeah, I’ll admit. I’m pretty awesome for finding this.”

“Oh, hey.” He turned to you with a confident smirk and wink. “I’ll defo take anything you’ll wanna give for this find. _Haha_ though I’m thinking it’s worth a bit more’n a reamer. Just a bit.”

Honestly you could kiss him for all the excitement thrumming through your body. “Whatever, dude,” you said, trying the handle and finding it locked. “I’m so excited about this you don’t even know.”

“Thought you might be!” Suddenly he was at your side, one hand on your shoulder as he leaned over you and tested the door himself. “Oi, darl, would you consider this as me providing for ya?”

You frowned. “Providing usually just means food, doesn’t it?”

“Could also mean shelter and a warm place ta sleep,” he argued, knocking on the door around the handle. “Like how you provided me with that tent and sleeping bag! Not that I’ve really used it yet, but eh. Don’t matter. Still happened.”

Humming, you sat back and watched as he took out his knife and held it to the door frame at a slight angle. You simply sat there as he jammed it into wood with a sharp jab on the hilt and wrenched it out before starting again. He was breaking in. And you couldn’t bring yourself to care about the illegality or morality of it with the prospect of shelter and getting into that hot spring that bubbled not ten feet from you.

You heard your name being called. Looking up, you saw Jamison grinning at you again as if he’d won some contest. “Something on your mind, darl?”

“You’re breaking in,” you said as he threw his shoulder against the door one, two, three times. 

The wood cracked and gave way under his weight. “Strewth, you’ve got good eyes. Now tell me, what colour’s the sky?”

“Blue,” you answered in a voice tinged with laughter. “Blue and half gray. And I would’ve thought you’d just pick the lock. Or, you know, explode it.”

“Two things,” he said, holding up a single finger. “First, picking locks is boring.” Entering the cabin, he took a brief look around before dropping the pack next to the door. “You’ve gotta sit there a real fucking long time and blindly have a poke at something that’d just be easier and quicker ta break.

“Who the fuck has the patience for that shit,” he asked, turning and dragging you in. “Assassins like Chuckles, that’s who. Too much time wasted and for what? Killing a single prick in the middle of a pack of pricks. Nah. It’s like I told her - much easier ta set off a bomb and get as many as you can all at once. She said it was a very inconspicuous approach and that she’d have to take lessons from me at some point! Which, hey, means someone appreciates what I do.”

Jamison kicked the pack in front of the door and stood with his hands on his hips over you. “There we are! Nice and secure. ‘Less, ‘course, someone really wanted in. Or if the wind decided ta have a go at it.” 

The wind whistled through the broken door frame. He chuckled and shrugged. “Ah well. We’re in, that’s what matters.”

You, in the meantime, had been looking around the cabin. It was a tiny place, just one single room. A gas stove sat in one corner, the propane tank on the shelf beside it. Two shelves were on wall above it, filled with teas, mugs, towels, and what looked like an old water purification machine and kettle. A plaque with Nepalese and Chinese characters was affixed to the wall over a simple wooden bench that extended from the wall. A few bamboo screens separated the rest of the room into what you guessed were changing rooms.

“Hey, Jamison,” you said, pointing to the plaque. “Does that say anything about this place?”

With a hum he went over to it and stared, hand cupping his chin. “Hm. Yep.” He turned, looking to you and jerking a thumb at the sign. “Says this here’s a hot spring.”

Your shoulders sagged as you stared at him. “Yes. Does it say anything else?”

“... That it’s the _Mustamg_ region, that the springs are half-tame, and some word what I don’t know.” He laughed, shrugging. “Soz I can’t be of more help, darl.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay, that’s fine. We’ll just have a small break here. I need a bath, and —”

“Well, yeah, that is what you said back in the tent.” Jamison said as he began to pull towels from the shelf. “Well, you said shower, but idea’s the same.”

“When did I say I needed a shower?”

“Right ‘fore you laughed at the idea of me taking one.” He cocked his head at you, brow wrinkled. “You sure you’re doing alright? I mean, don’t think bumping your head did too much, but...”

“Oh.” That would explain the lessening throb and headache. He’d hit your head while getting you from the lake. “I still want a bath. You should take a nap, though.”

“I ain’t tired,” he protested, hunching over a bundle of towels in his arms. “I don’t need no cunting nap.”

That was possibly the single most childishly uttered sentence you had ever heard from a fellow adult. Still, he remained adamant when you tried to press the issue. Alright, fine. No nap for him then. If he wanted to ignore his body and fall asleep when he least wanted to, let him.

This, of course, meant that he ended up joining you in the spring, both of you clad in nothing but your underwear. You’d only really managed this by virtue of repeatedly saying that you weren’t playing and invoking your truce. For your troubles you had gotten an outline of how he was _this_ close to throwing you over the bench and ‘smashing’ you. By the time you got to the small spring both of you were in thornier spirits than before.

You hissed when you entered the water, finding it almost too hot as Jamison removed his prosthetics and entered as well. You sat on opposite sides of the pool.

Jamison watched you with hooded eyes, sitting with his back to a rock and his arms propped up on either side of him. With his golden eyes and sharp nose this left you with the vague impression of a swooping hawk. You ignored him as best you could and splashed about in the water, getting used to the temperature. 

Turning your back to him, you sank deeper into the water, up to your shoulders, and began washing yourself. When you inadvertently shot a look to Jamison, you saw that he was watching you with an awed expression.

“What,” you asked, looking away and blushing.

“Nothing,” he whispered, barely loud enough to be heard. “It’s just... pretty is _not_ the word ta describe you.”

You straightened your back, glaring at him and feeling like someone had transferred the pain in your ankle to your heart. “Good. Maybe now you’ll finally be free of the delusion that you like me.”

His brow furrowed and mouth thinned. Then, with a grin so wide his chapped lips split, Jamison threw his head back and laughed. “Darl, if this is a delusion, then I’m right fucking mad.”

“Aren’t you though?” His laughter died and he looked at you with a pained smile. “Well if I’m not pretty then what am I?”

Jamison glared at you. “Well, see I was gonna say something nice. But now I don’t really feel like it.”

Oh. _Oh._ You blushed more deeply. “Wait, were you going to say I’m not pretty because I’m not _just_ pretty?”

“Not just pretty,” he repeated in a mocking tone. “Cripes. I’ve already told you I like ya. _And_ for more’n just ‘cause I think you’re the prettiest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen. Holy shit. Did I accidentally knock something loose in there with that rock?”

You laughed nervously, blinking and bringing a hand up to the knot on your head. “S-sorry.” You looked at yourself through the water. “You know, you’re... pretty nice looking too.”

Jamison gaped at you. “Well _that’s_ an obvious attempt at a rort. You’ve never said that I look nice. Hell, you’ve never really said anything nice to me.” He chewed his lip, looking down. His hand clenched reflexively. “Are ya sure you weren’t just acting when you said ya liked me?”

You swam over to him, stopping just out of arm’s reach. “Look, I’m sorry I said that.” He flinched, turning away. “But, to let you know, I think you are very... striking and often quite funny. You always have really interesting stories to tell, and you’re _amazing_ with mechanics and apparently take to languages more easily than I think I _ever_ could.” 

You took in a breath, steeling yourself against the warning bells in your head. “So, yes. I like you. I’m just... really confused about all this still. But I know that I do like you.”

Jamison had turned back to you with an unreadable expression. Then his hand clenched. “How am I ta know this isn’t an act.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. “What would prove to you that I’m not acting right now?”

Golden eyes burned into your own before dropping to your throat. A savage grin broke out on his face as he leant forward, drawing his eyes slowly back to yours. “C’mere.”

Your heart beat faster as you obeyed. As soon as you were within reach, he shot forward and grabbed your arm to drag you to him. Your knee hit the edge of the rock he was sitting on harshly, making you hiss before Jamison pulled you up to straddle his lap. Your hands landed on the rock on either side of his head as you stood on your knees over him.

Jamison’s eyes held your own, growing darker by the second as his hand slid around your back to press between your shoulder blades. His other arm tapped against your hip, and you could feel the end of his leg brushing your knee as he shifted to sit straighter.

Warning bells were ringing in your head, calling your attention back to the idea that changing your rapport may be a bad idea. You ignored them, instead biting your tongue before asking what to do.

“How would _you_ show someone that you like ‘em,” he said, dragging his hand down your back to rest at the curve of your waist. Along the way your bra strap caught in his fingers and snapped painfully back in place.

You breathed in deeply and brought your hands to his shoulder and sat on his knee, adjusting as you went to keep from aggravating your ankle. He looked momentarily shocked, drawing in a sharp breath before smiling hesitantly. You leaned forward, bringing your forehead to rest against his as your hands smoothed up to frame his face. Your thumb lightly ran back and forth across the bandage on his cheek.

His eyes were wide and dark as he looked up, searching you with an air of barely restrained hope.

One of your hands moved to brace against his shoulder as you whispered, “I really do like you.”

With that, you closed those last few inches between your lips.

At first, he sat there unmoving. Then, with a slight giggle sounding from the back of his throat he kissed you back. His hand smoothed back up your spine to cup your neck as his mouth opened beneath yours. His other arm tapped uselessly at your waist, at your hips, at your ribs, before coming to rest on your thigh. 

The feeling of the elbow joint caressing your skin there was odd, but you didn’t have the presence of mind to care as his other hand began shooting across your back as if trying to touch everywhere all at once.

You wrapped one arm around his head, bringing your wet fingers up to card through his tangled hair. He whined when your fingernails scratched his bald patches and again when the fingers of your other hand dug into his shoulder. Moving closer, your chest brushed his. The cold wind blowing over your wet skin and the warmth of the water contrasted sharply.

A small part of you screamed that you’d done it, you’d proven your point. This was quickly overtaken by the louder, more insistent screaming of _want_.

You pulled back slightly, catching his chapped lower lip between your teeth. He gasped and you tasted blood. You shot back, holding a hand to your mouth as you looked down in worry. “Shit, are you okay?”

“M’fine, m’fine,” came his rapid answer as he arched up after your lips. “Oh, god, I’m fine.”

You scraped your teeth across your lip, feeling the chapped flesh of your own lips, before meeting his once more. His teeth immediately sank into your own lip as his arms came to wrap around your hips and pull you against him. You shuddered against his mouth at the feeling of his hard on, obvious despite the wet cloth still between you.

He pulled back, licking your lip to pant, “You fine?”

“Yes. Lord, yes.” You dove back in, tangling your tongues together and grinding against him.

Jamison groaned. He pulled away to kiss, lick, and bite down your chin, jaw, and throat once more. It felt nice. His stubble prickled against your skin, but oh, that felt nice too. His hand came up to squeeze one of your breasts, thumb running over the hardened nipple. 

Yes, _yes_ , he was biting down your throat and over your chest to nip at the flesh above your bra with a low, half-broken moan that you echoed as you pressed him closer. His hips rolled beneath yours, his dick hard and throbbing and pressing _oh yes_ just right against your clit.

Oh, Lord, how you wanted this. You tugged his hair, pulling his mouth back to yours greedily. 

Teeth clashing, you scratched a hand over his chest. He hissed and gave your tongue an almost painful suck. Your hand wrapped around the head of his dick. He groaned, kissing you more deeply as he rocked you against him again. You pulled back just enough to slip a hand inside his patched and tattered briefs. He shuddered, a giggle combining with his next moan. 

As your hand wrapped around his cock, he slipped his fingers into your underwear, squeezing at the flesh of your ass rhythmically. You pulled back to see what you were doing, leaving him to pant as his head fell back on the rock behind him.

“Oh, fuck,” he moaned, drawing out your name brokenly. His Adam’s apple jumped and his tongue rolled out as he curled, craning his neck to the side to watch you with lusty eyes. “Fuck me, you’re so goddamn perfec- _ah!_ ”

His words cut off as you scraped your own teeth over his neck. His entire body seized as if you had tazed him and then he was curling his head into the crook of your neck, babbling incoherently as he rutted into your hand.

“Shit, darl,” he panted, recovering himself enough to place a shaking, gasping kiss against your lips. “This is okay, yeah? ‘S alright?”

You hummed, nodding and gasping against him. “Yes,” you managed as his hand smoothed around your hips.

His fingers danced across you, finding your clit and moving across it with a dogged determination that left you gasping into the next kiss. Then they were pressing against you, pressing into you, and the heel of his hand grinding against you as he sucked at your pulse point and heaved harsh breaths in your ear, telling you how good you were, how pretty, how long he’d wanted this, how much he liked you. 

And, oh, this felt good. This felt so _good_. The press of his hand and the curl of his fingers, the way he twisted them, stretching you in ways your own fingers had never managed. 

You panted in his ear, biting his earlobe and moaning. "God, _yes_ , yes Jami-" His name cut off in a hiss as you rocked against him. 

Then, suddenly, he was shuddering and hissing, whining and thrusting erratically.

“Shit, _no_ ,” he cursed. “Not yet! _Ah, fuck_!”

Pulling back, you saw that he looked both bewildered and furious as he watched a cloud of white appear in the water between you. You couldn’t help chuckling, moving your hand to his hip. Jamison glared at you with no small amount of exhaustion, throwing his head back against the rock as his hips shuddered one last time.

The last groan came from between clenched teeth and died down to another hiss. “Shit, darl, that was..." He coughed, licking his teeth. " _Hahaha_ , that was _not_ what I’d hoped would happen.” 

“It’s okay,” you said, trying to keep the disappointment out of your voice as your heart pounded.

Humming, he sat up again, dark eyes taking you in. “I should be balls deep inside you right now, just thrusting into you again and again.”

You furrowed your brow. Why was his voice so rasping all of a — Oh, _fuck_ his hand was moving again and all you could do was bring your arms up around his neck and gasp. Your forehead pressed against his again, but when you tried to press a kiss to his lips he moved away again.

“I’d press against you, all _heavy_ and _hard_ and _hot_ for ya, sliding into your cunt centimetre by fucking centimetre ‘till I was in as _far_ as I’ll go,” he whispered to you, watching you gasp as his hand moved to his words. “Then I’d give a few practice goes, like this, and like _this_ , and just get faster and faster, _faster_ , until you’re writhing against me, oh yeah, darl, just like that.”

Your hips rolled with abandon. Oh, God, the slide of his fingers, the press of his thumb... 

Your legs trembled on either side of his thighs. He pressed them further apart, hooking his arm around your shoulder as he curved you against him. Your chest was flush with his, leaving you _deeply_ aware of how his words rumbled out. The soaked fabric of your bra rubbed against your breasts and nipples, adding to the simulation as your heart and lungs seemed to jump in your chest.

And, throughout it all, the wind blew over you, heightening the sensations by highlighting the contrast between the frigid air and the warm water that splashed around you. You moaned, eyelids fluttering and mouth dropping open. When you reopened them, Jamison was there, staring into you and smiling.

Jamison giggled at the sight of you coming undone. Moving forward, he spoke against your lips as he described exactly how he’d fuck you, how you would clench around him as he made you cum.

And then you did. You came, pressing into a wet, open-mouthed kiss that seemed to swallow the world around you as you thrashed against him.

Oh, yes. Something had changed, alright. And you weren’t sure you cared.


	15. Interlude: When You Had Left Our Pirate Fold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA What A Rat Remembers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This segment was actually written back around the time I was writing chapter four/“Chapter One: The Fall.” There’s two scenes missing here that explain more of his history, but they were more clunky and so will be revealed in other ways.

_Oi! Ziggy Stardust! Don’t think that just ‘cause I’m from the bush I don’t know what’s what in a fancy place like this. I know ya don’t need to stick me with all ‘em needles you’ve got there._

_I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. These here’re just the vaccines that ye most undoubtedly need._

_So fucking what? Like hell am I gonna let you stick me with ‘em._

_Very well then. I suppose I’ll just note ye as one ta keep an eye on. Now, let’s see... D’ye know anything about your family’s medical history?_

_Ay, mate, how’s ‘bout ya rack off?_

_I’ll put that down as a no, then. ... Ye said you were twenty-five? Cor, ye must’ve been but, what, four, five at best? Tell me, d’ye remember_ anything _about your life before the Incident?_

 __Hahaha _... S-sure I do! I remember, uh, tons of, tons of stuff._

_Hm. Well, go on then. Tell me what ye remember. Oh, don’t look at me like that. Don’t worry — I’m your doctor. I can keep your secrets._

_I, uh, I don’t wanna._

_Oh. Well if ye can’t remember because your brain’s too damaged, then —_

_Oi, fuck you! I can remember._

_Hm. I’ll believe ye when I hear it._

__

_Summer, 2057_

__

__

It was a warm summer and the sun was peeking through his blinds, calling to him. He wanted to go out and _play_. But no - they’d said he needed to take a nap.

He didn’t feel like sleeping though. He wanted to play with his new Christmas present.

But the chemistry set was outside, with his _jailers_.

He huffed. It wasn’t _fair_. Just because he had knocked over a shelf didn’t mean that he should be put in the prison that was his bedroom. 

Flipping to his belly, he looked at the bucket of ice set before the quiet fan on his bedside table. He flicked an ice cube and watched it clatter down the pile to catch at the rim.

Oh, the water droplets were like racing rockets! Wide eyed, he chose two at random and watched as the race began.

It ended too quickly when another, bigger droplet swooped down and ate them.

_Bored bored bored this is boring I just wanna play this isn’t fair_

Jumping from the bed, he ran over to the door to listen. Maybe the jailers were taking naps too?

No. He could hear the cello music down the hall.

Wait! That meant Dad was playing! He pressed against the door, eager to listen to the song. It was a new one; something fast and exciting. Which meant that... Dad wouldn’t be paying attention!

His eyes found the door handle. Stretching up, he tried it.

Sweet, glorious freedom!

He ran down the hall, grinning as he closed in on his chemistry set. Suddenly he was in the air, soft arms holding him tightly as curly blonde hair fell in a curtain around him.

“Oops, there y’are, ya little buggalug!” How could he have forgotten that Mum was about?

He struggled in her grip, but Mum was too strong. She tickled him and he stopped, laughing as he hugged her.

“Now, Jamie, I thought ya said you were ready for your nap.”

“I’m not tired! I wanna play with my prezzie!”

“If ya don’t take a nap, what will Uncle Zay say when he gets here? Hmm? He might just have ta... take back your new chem set!”

He gasped - surely Uncle Zay wouldn’t? It was _his_!

Just then the screen door swung open and a dusty duffle bag hit the floor. “Well fuck me, would ya look at that? Finally up the duff again, eh Avs? And what’s all this shit ‘bout me taking back what’s rightfully his?”

“Uncle Zay!” Squirming around in his mother’s arms, he turned to look at the red haired man smiling at them from the doorway.

Uncle Zay stepped over his bag to ruffle his hair. “Heya Jim Jam!”

“Zay! Oh my God, you’re _back_!” Mum was laughing, bringing him over to embrace Uncle Zay. He threw his arms around the man’s neck. The two adults moved apart, leaving his uncle holding him now. As his uncle tapped him on the nose, Mum called out, “Lachlan, look an’ see who’s back!”

The cello music stopped.

When Dad appeared in the doorway of the living room he wasn’t smiling. He clapped his hands over his mouth, turning to look at Mum’s hidden smile.

“Oh, Xavier, how unfortunate. Ya see, I’m afraid I’ve got ta inform you that you’ve interrupted Barber’s Concerto. What have you ta say in your defence?”

“Shit, mate, how many times do I gotta tell ya? Call me Zay. That or what my army mates do.”

“Noted. So, Blue. What’s your defence?”

“Up yours, ya tall poppy bastard.”

Dad’s face twitched like it always did when he tried to hold in laughter. “That’s not a defence, and watch your language ‘round my son. I’ll not have him cussing ‘fore he’s six.”

Uncle Zay made a similar face. “Ay ya bastard, he’s a fucking Ozzie. He’s likely ta hear worse than me down at the servo youse’ll shoot through when ya head back to that piss pot ya call a city.”

“Oi, rack off! Melbs is better than anything what you lot’ve got near the Alice!”

The two men glared at each other for a moment, green clashing with gold, then suddenly broke into laugher.

“G’arn, Blue, make yourself at home.”

“Shit, Lach, ya pull that routine every time, or just when you’re playing?”

“I’ll have you know I have many routines. You just only ever arrive when I’m playing.” Dad chuckled, shaking his head and hugging Uncle Zay as well. “Still mate, it’s good ta have ya back! Where were ya this time? Tassie?” Upon confirmation of this, Dad nodded and headed for the kitchen. “You deal with this chicken strangler, darl; I’ll make tea this time.”

“You two are absolutely useless galahs sometimes, I swear,” grinned Mum as she led his uncle into the living room.

——

_“... and later today Prime Minister Nathan Kerr will be meeting again with representatives from the Aboriginal community, along with those from the Northern Territory and South Australia, to discuss the secession of territory near the Oodnadatta Omnium to the Omnics as part of the peace treaty signed by the United Nations following the cessation of hostilities with the Omnics in November._

_“Members of the Australian Liberation Front have been in vocal opposition to these meetings, saying that the secession is uncalled for due to the losses suffered during the Crisis. Recently some startling reports have come to light regarding the levels of increasing hostility between the Front and the Omnics. Could there be another Crisis brewing? We turn now to our reporter in the fiel-”_

“Zay, why’d you cut it off? I’m right curious about how the pollies will settle all this.” Mum was sitting on the couch and watching as he conducted science, giggling at the reactions various ingredients had with each other. 

“Mummy, mum! Look what I did,” he shouted, pointing at the explosively foaming test tube.

“That’s lovely, Jamie! Good job! Now, careful not ta get that on your arm. Remember how long it took your dad to clean it last time.”

“Them suits were the ones ta plant the Omnium here in the first place. No one wanted it _then_ , no one wants it _now_ ,” groused Uncle Zay as he splayed himself out on the couch next to Mum. Taking a long sip of his beer, he added “ ‘Sides, not like you and Lach gotta worry ‘bout it too much. Youse got your friends down in Melbs ta offer you a place ta stay when ya sell all this off.”

Mum hummed, rubbing her stomach idly. “Well, we’ll have ta stay with them for a while, yeah. Least ‘til Lachlan or I can find work. I’ve sent in a few CVs to a couple of clinics, but no one’s emailed back yet. Oh, and Lachlan’s got a research offer at the uni, but you know him.”

“Couple of fucking bleeding hearts, youse are. No wonder ya were able to convince him ta move back here with ya,” Zay muttered into his bottle. “So what if he ain’t making limbs for vets? Even in research he could make fucking bank.”

Mum merely hummed in thought as her hand quickly shot out, preventing him from overbalancing as he dragged over a larger set of test tubes. “What’ll you do, Zay? Always work for electricians ‘round Melbourne.”

“Yeah, nah. Might head for the City of Churches. Even if they manage ta kick me outta the bush, they can’t kick me outta the state.”

“Ya sold off Aunt Mag’s yet?”

“Nah. None of ‘em offers are good enough yet for all the damn memories. ‘Sides, it’s fucking out past the black stump, innit? Don’t think the coppers’d find me, ‘specially if I can get back up that grid we built back when we was minshies.”

He poured first one ingredient into the beaker, then another, muttering to himself as he played.

Mum turned to face Uncle Zay. “Well, what about that bloke you were telling us about? Isn’t he a Kiwi? Maybe you could go live with his relos.”

His uncle took another, longer sip as a frown pulled at his face. “Half Kiwi. And I don’t really wanna talk ‘bout him.”

Mum looked at Uncle Zay curiously. “Last I heard you two were —”

“Said I don’t wanna talk ‘bout him, Avs,” his uncle muttered through clenched teeth.

He ran up to Uncle Zay, oblivious to the tension in the room, and deposited his creation on his uncle’s knee. “Blimey, Jim Jam, did you make this,” his uncle said with wonder as he poked the slime.

“Yep! Watch this,” he said, pulling out a box of matches and striking one before Mum could shout ‘no.’

The slime burst into flames immediately on contact with the match. His uncle cursed in surprise and swatted it off his leg, spewing forth a tirade against the pain in his hand that followed. The flaming ball of goo splattered through the air and where it fell, creating a stream of fire in the room as Mum yelled for Dad, who appeared with a fire extinguisher and a tired expression.

Mum was cleaning up the chemistry set as Dad knelt down to talk to him. “Now, Jamie, remember our promise?”

“Don’t set things on fire inside the house without asking permission.”

“Good. Now apologise to your uncle for what you did.”

“I’m sorry I set your leg on fire, Uncle Zay.”

Uncle Zay laughed, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Eh, she’ll be right, Jim Jam; I’ve been through worse. That was a neato trick ya did, though. What’d you make the slime out of?”

He brightened and told him, but the names he’d made up for the ingredients just made Uncle Zay’s brow wrinkle in confusion as he smiled.

“He makes those things outta household goods, Zay,” Mum called over as the chemistry set was put back on the shelf. “You name it, he’s gotten into it.”

“That’s ace, ya little ankle biter.”

“Zay, no, don’t encourage that kinda behaviour.”

“Aw, c’mon Avs, what’s the worst he can do?”

——

“Christ, Blue, take it easy there! That’s your fourth coolie today and we’ve not even celebrated yet!”

“Strewth, ya sound just like ‘em, Lach. I can handle it, ‘kay? Don’t _look_ at me like that, I just... ... Alright, _fine_ , I’ll stop. Right after I finish this one.”

“... Xavier, mate, what the fuck happened to ya? Ever since ya got back you’ve been worrying Ava and I outta — Ah, hey Jamie, what’re you doing here?”

“... Mummy wanted help with the balloons...”

——

The cake was topped with leftover sparklers from New Years and was decorated with an image of Frankenstein’s monster (his most recent fictional obsession). His parents clapped when he blew them out, telling him to keep his wish a secret or it wouldn’t come true. He wished for a baby brother, spouting the words less than three seconds after their warnings. 

He clapped his hands excitedly, sitting on Mum’s lap as Uncle Zay cleared his throat and began the annual performance.

“ ‘A paradox, a paradox, a most ingenious paradox,’ ” sang Uncle Zay, everyone joining in for the laughter. “ ‘That paradox!’ ”

His uncle flung himself dramatically about the room, holding up various objects and gesticulating wildly as he built up to his favourite line. The line that was about him. At last, his uncle held out his arms theatrically, kneeling before him and Mum as he intoned the horrors of having been born on the twenty-ninth of February.

The rest of the song continued with Dad and Mum taking the parts of the other characters in the scene, and the whole thing ended with everyone singing the final chorus together.

Mum fetched plates as Dad cut the cake, chatting about how Dad would finish his present, a new arm inspired by Frankenstein, by June.

“Happy birthday, Jim Jam,” Uncle Zay said as he pressed a kid’s engineering set into his hands. “Five years already! Here’s hoping the next five will be just as fucking ace as the first.”

——

_Winter, 2057_

He was sick, and Mum and Dad had called in Uncle Zay to take care of him.

“Where’s mummy and daddy,” he croaked out as his uncle placed a cool washcloth on his forehead.

“They’ve gone ta Oodnadatta, Jim Jam. Your little brother or sister is wanting ta be born, an’ out there’s the closest hospital,” Uncle Zay said quietly. “Tried ta convince ‘em ta head to the Alice instead, avoid the blue that’s been brewing ‘tween the A.L.F. an’ them bots down there. But they didn’t listen. Didn’t listen...”

“What,” he questioned, not understanding. Maybe it was just because he was tired - he had wanted to go to the hospital so badly. It wasn’t _fair_ that Mum and Dad had left him behind just because he didn’t feel well.

“Shh, don’t worry, Jim Jam,” Uncle Zay replied with a weak smile as he rolled a half-full beer bottle in his hands. “Was more speaking ta meself anyways.”

Shutting his eyes, he coughed weakly and fell back asleep.

——

On the horizon appeared a bright flash of light.

It was followed by a scorching wind that clattered over the house like a train.

When he found Uncle Zay screaming into his phone, shouting that the line _couldn’t_ be disconnected, he didn’t know what to think.

All that he knew was that the glass from the blown in windows under his feet hurt.

That his ears hurt from a noise he already only half-remembered.

That he had never seen his uncle look so scared before.

And that, for some reason, he was already crying.


	16. Chapter Nine: Respiration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA: Wherein Roadhog Comes To Hate Hiking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologise for the long delay in updates - there were a series of family emergencies that took all my focus from fun things. I can only hope they are finished now. Thank you to those who reached out during this time. :)
> 
> Edit: Scatterbrained person that I am, I forgot to thank J, my editor for their help this chapter.  
> Edit 2: I forgot the dictionary and cultural notes I meant to put in too.  
> Tjaka - Pitjantjatjara word, translating roughly to the phrase "That's the way it is"  
> Kunmanara - Pitjantjatjara word, replacement name for a deceased person  
> Anangu is a word meaning "human being, person" as well as the name used to self describe by the Western Desert Cultural Bloc in Australia.  
> As a note, Anangu culture is not my culture and I wish to treat it with respect. If anyone knows more about it and is willing to share, please contact me.

I had been walking for perhaps three hours when I finally found the split off point to head towards the waypoint. Following the path the old couple had directed me to, I had come across many signs of human habitation. It was a well travelled mountain road from the number of tracks crossing it, though I met no one. Which was welcomed. I was sure meeting another traveller would result in nothing less than a bloodbath, regardless of how friendly they pretended to be, what with how my dull headache grew the higher I climbed.

I wondered if anyone else had come across Rat and the girl. Would they be friendly? Would Rat be friendly? Would they offer aide? Would Rat be able to to call me if their course altered? Would he remember to? I don’t know what I would do in the event he forgot. That boy and I had _words_ to exchange.

Did he know _Kunmanara_? Was he the same kid that the man would go on and on about, crowing over the latest escapade of his nephew? Did the nickname _Kunmanara_ had always used for the kid mean anything to Rat? Rat had never really talked about his past, aside from an odd statement here and there. More often than not he’d ended up being distracted by something; he’d started humming some silly tune or other, or abruptly changed topics.

Should have asked more questions instead of letting it lie.

Should have pressed the issue in the rare event I did ask questions.

Should have listened instead of ignoring what he said.

Should have talked to him instead of being silent.

Should have, should have.

The world is full of should haves. And we pay the price by living the lives our actions and inactions have laid out for us. We deserve what they bring.

That’s just the way it is.

Akande understands. Everyone deserves what they get. Those that thrive are those that fight and evolve according to their needs. There is nothing wrong with that.

It is when wanton greed and morbid curiosity become involved that the idea becomes perverted. 

A true dingo acts with the pack. It draws blood for the protection of the whole. The pack then takes only what they need to survive. Thus, they keep things in equilibrium. A false dingo simply takes, takes, takes, taking everything it can get because it wants it. It draws blood because it enjoys it. It tips the scales in its favour because it will benefit from doing so.

The world is full of false dingoes, snarling and swiping for whatever they can steal. It has always been this way, since the _piranpa_ came spreading their ideals of merit and capital.

At least in the Outback we’re open about it. Everywhere else the dingoes wear masks, dress themselves up in fancy clothes and play at humility, at nobility.

Nobility. I would laugh at that false ideal, were I not gasping for breath in this thin atmosphere.

Nobility is nothing, and nothing is noble. One just has to look at how Overwatch and the United Nations treated us — still treats us — all while acting as if they had the moral right due to their nobility. Time proved that their good deeds were just a stunt to curry favour with strangers. Some ‘nobility.’ One has but to look at how Overwatch ended up to see the truth. No one is noble. Those who claim to be so are mere pretenders, who claim nobility to feel superior to those who show them what humankind _truly_ is.

An endlessly grasping, ever hungering horde, ready to throw anyone and anything to the hounds if it means satisfying such dearly held, yet false, ideals.

The elders had understood, and yet not understood. But I cannot blame them. _Tjaka_. That single flash of light burned so much, so quickly. So many dreams lost, ended, destroyed in ways that the _piranpa_ had never quite managed. To have one of the people... well, one that _was_...

I did not blame them. How could I? It is due to my actions that the Incident ended the way it did. I did not regret removing that rust coloured blight to our lands, though I could have made sure...

I _should_ have made sure...

Should have, should have.

Still, I did not regret it. It is one thing to look back with the knowledge of what one should have done, what one could have done. It is an entirely different thing to say I wished I could change it. 

Did I wish I could change it? No. My decisions were the best ones I could have made with the information I had at the time. My one regret, if you could call it that, was more a distant longing for the world I destroyed. But I knew what I had done. I deserved that which I have wrought.

What’s done is done. _Tjaka_.

She’d say it was fitting recompense for what I’ve done. Screwing up the trade, screwing up our people, screwing up our home, screwing up the attacks. Screwing up Riley’s face... I did wonder if she’d bring up the lost kid. Perhaps the _found_ kid. 

Would she see his ghost in him as well?

I wondered what further insults she’d have for us if Rat and the kid are indeed one in the same. If my suspicions were right, she could no longer claim that I was a _constant_ disappointment. Then I would simply be a pain in the arse. 

What a delightful and meaningful improvement that would be.

Still, I needed confirmation. If he turned out to be the kid, I would at last absolve myself of having failed _Kunmanara_ when he needed me. If the galah’s memory was too buggered to be sure though, well... no harm done. The kid shall stay dead, merely a vaguely remembered half-memory held by people who’d never met him, his one mark on the world amounting to _Kunmanara_ ’s grave.

It was possible that the gun was simply made with scrap. It was very possible that _Kunmanara_ ’s remains were disturbed in some scavenger’s hunt for valuables — I wouldn’t know. I had avoided the area after paying my respects, just as I avoided the lands I was told never to return to. 

It was even possible that Rat was the scavenger. I have heard the stories. I would not put it past someone deserving of his name. If that is the truth, I am uncertain how I would respond. On one hand, the personal effects people were commonly buried with _did_ net large returns at market. The metals they often contain are useful to build and maintain weapons, arms, legs... machinery of any type, really, so long as it could be melted down and reshaped. It would be understandable — such is the state of our world. 

The real question there is one of morality. Does a burial mean that a corpse is off limits, whereas one you cut down yourself is free for the taking? If they are the same, who am I to judge? I have cut down many, taken their goods to market, sustained myself on the returns. If the two acts are not the same, why are the unburied not afforded the same respect as the buried? It all comes down to how far greed will lead a man. How far hunger will drive him. What actions it will allow him to excuse. Everyone thinks themselves above such actions. Well, everyone who does not know the sharpness _true_ hunger wields.

On the other hand, the grave is _Kunmanara_ ’s — or was, if indeed it was disturbed. The man has been dead for so long. Would it honour or dishonour his memory to kill the one who disturbed his resting place?

I remember how wretched he’d looked during our time in the unit. How he’d reacted to the death that surrounded us. How he’d come to blame himself. What it drove him to. He would never have wished death on someone whose actions one can rationalise. He was a good man. A kind man.

But me?

The thought made me laugh against my better judgement. I fell to coughing before the first laugh had fully ended. The noise echoed around the mountain range, quieter than the crunching of rocks and snow beneath my feet. But loud enough to be thrown back at me.

Barely visible at the edge of my vision, something moved next to a pile of rocks.

I froze, turning slowly as I reached for my hook. I saw nothing amiss — merely a pile of rocks jutting against the cliff edge. Some sparse, dying grass, yet clinging to life even as the world around it freezes.

The episode has left me shorter of breath. My mouth tasted of metal as I stifled my coughs and fought for breath. But I couldn’t relax, I couldn’t risk distracting myself by searching for some hogdrogen in my pack. How many did I have left anyway?

I turn slowly in a circle, searching the environs around me as I racked my brain. I had packed six. I had used one yesterday. I have been holding off today, fighting against my lungs and the air to stay upright and moving. I am exhausted by the effort. My limbs are heavy with the lack of oxygen, and my fingers twitch and itch to pluck a canister from my pack. My entire body pleading with my mind to be able to breathe more easily for a time.

I do not have a way to reseal them, once opened. If I open one, I must use it all. I have five canisters. Ten minutes each, if that, of breathing more clearly in the open wilderness. The memory of a tale stirs — some child with matches, lost to the cold. I cannot afford that end, not with so much left undone.

Something moved again, higher up the mountainside. Hm. A leopard, its form barely visible against the rock-dotted snow. Angry at my own paranoia, I continued on my way without slowing. I could power through this cough — I’d done so before in Australia.

But, as if the universe wanted to spite me, I was fighting back a cough with every breath by the time I stopped to rest on a boulder for lunch. The salted nuts from the last of my trail mix packets did not help, but instead left me coughing outright as my mouth grew drier than before. I checked my almost empty canteen with a grimace. Strike that. I checked my _empty_ canteen with a grimace.

The water had been cool and refreshing, but with it came a resurgence of coughing. My lungs felt ragged again — I needed hot water to attempt to relax them. I set about searching my pack for fire building materials, fighting back coughs as I did so.

Once again, I found myself wishing that Rat hadn’t been an idiot and thrown himself out of a plane after a root. This mission wouldn’t have come a gutser if he’d just stayed on the ship as he should have done, ignored the would-be casualty, and helped me wreck that damn robot as we had been paid to do. We’d be on our way back to HQ, seeing a few AJs off to hospital. We’d get paid, be able to relax. I’d not have need of someone to light a fire for me.

But no. Instead, he let himself get distracted by the girl. Again.

Now here we were. Lost. In the mountains. Separately. Very likely written off as casualties with the rest of the mercs who went sky-diving. And, on top of all that bollocks, we had failed the mission. Which left me here, alone, and without an easy means of melting snow. It was frustrating to look around and know that all this white was water, but that I could not drink it. For some reason my Year 10 English teacher popped into my head as I glared at the snow, though the fleeting image disappeared as another cough tried to claw its way from my chest.

I beat my chest, as if the action would fix my lungs. As I did so, I contemplated the current root of my problems. It was obvious who it was. 

This was all because of that girl.

Things would be much simpler if Rat had simply let me shoot her like I had wanted to back in Dublin. It would have tied up all the loose ends from that gig — loose ends that were still tripping us up. He may have been a bit stroppy about it, especially with how he’d talked about her after finding her little “look what I found in the archives” interview. 

But he would have gotten over it and I would have gotten payback for her ruining my air filter. Yes, Rat had done good by using her money to bribe a new one from that army surplus clerk, but this was bigger than a buggered filter. Now he’d be even stroppier if she ended up dead (again). I wasn’t sure which was worse. The idea of having to listen to yet another diatribe about how sexy, clever, tenacious, whatever the girl was... Hm. It made my headache worse to even imagine it, as did the idea of a repetition of his belly-aching from the first time he’d thought her dead.

Then there was our deal. He would be able to keep her, now that they’d slept together, and I wasn’t allowed to try to kill her or tell him off for it. It was a childish deal, made by a short-sighted fool, and was fittingly full of loopholes. I don’t think Rat realised that, or else he’d add extra rules. 

I can’t kill her. I gave my word not to. That didn’t mean I have to protect her from situations that put her at risk, such as those that will no doubt come once people started asking why Rat spent so much time... wherever he’d keep her holed up. There was nothing in our deal saying that I had to keep quiet about it. Not that asking me would be altogether necessary, if Sombra were put to the task.

Still, I’d protect him. I’d take him out somewhere he’d enjoy. Another arcade, perhaps. We’d get boba. Let Talon do as they will with the girl. Sure, he’d probably throw a wobbly or two; be stroppy for a few weeks, like he had been before this mission. But he’d get over it. Things would return to normal. I have no doubt about that.

After all, he didn’t love her. No. Lusted for her, yes. But love? I’d sooner sprout wings.

... But then he _had_ come up with our deal even before we’d been recruited by Talon. He had sung her praises even as we dealt with yet another police squad she’d called down on us. He had all but interrogated that one AJ who’d befriended us on how to “bag a classy sheila”. He had, somehow, convinced Sombra to give him the girl’s files. He had even fought Reaper after learning of her supposed death at the elite soldier’s hand. 

Hm. I would see how they interacted when I found them again. Perhaps I would need flight lessons after all. The idea made my headache pound even harder. If he didn’t just lust after her, but loved her, then how would he feel when I told Talon where to find her?

Pushing down my conflicting feelings, I laid out the pieces I’d need to start a fire. Key word being ‘start.’ I was missing anything substantial enough to keep it going. What I needed was kindling. Craning my head about, I saw a scraggly bush sprouting in the crack of a boulder a few metres away. I would have to uproot the thing, but it would do.

For a brief moment after I stood, everything was normal. Then my vision spotted as my knees buckled beneath me. My body felt lopsided; heavy, yet at the same time light as a feather. I took a stumbling step forward and ended up with my knees planted in the snow, gasping for breath.

The wind howled again, feeling stronger than before. Looking up, I watched a smattering of grey clouds dance across the sky. Okay. Focus. I could do this. I crawled forward to the base of the boulder. The effort left my lungs spasming, the damaged flesh having a difficult time of drawing in enough air — the frustratingly cold, biting air that made my lungs feel even smaller than usual. And here I’d thought that the dust and ash of the Outback made breathing difficult.

I heaved myself up using the rocky outcropping of the mountainside. Breathing in as deeply as possible, I held the burning, frigid air in my chest and made for the bush. My abdominal muscles spasmed as I slowly released the breath, fighting to release the cough that I would not allow.

The pain would keep me focused.

My vision spotted as my chest jumped with the suppressed coughs. The bush cracked beneath the grip of my fingers, the noise of which was barely audible over the pounding of my heart and the rasping coughs that clawed up my throat. With my breath coming in increasingly rapid bursts, I unsheathed my machete and swung. At the same instant, my vision finally blacked out completely.

It was by sheer luck that I hit wood, rather than my hand or the rock. I felt the tremor of the branch breaking rock up my arm, and as my vision cleared I swung again.

The bush came free with a sharp twist of my wrist.

And I ended up on my back.

I couldn’t breathe. 

The dull ache between my eyes began to beat in tandem with my heart, growing faster and faster with each gasping inhale. And I was tired. Too tired. Not normal. Couldn’t breathe.

I needed my drugs. My medicine.

My body felt too heavy to turn over. But I needed to. I would not die here. Breathe. I bit the inside of my cheek. Blood pooled in my mouth. The pain distracted me from the weight of my limbs. The pain focused me. I managed to flip over, to drag myself back to the boulder from whence I came. It was further than I had expected — than I had remembered.

The pain was not enough to focus me. Had it ever really been enough? My vision darkened.

I saw nothing. Need air. I was freezing. I made a final, desperate lunge. My hand hit the pack, toppling it. Whatever sound it made was muted. All I heard was the echoing thud of my heart. The rasping wheeze of my lungs.

No air. Need air. Need, need, need...

I reached blindly out, catching things. I found multiple pieces. They all felt the same through my gloves. I forced myself to focus. My vision was spotted, the black dots appearing even at dead centre.

My lungs spasmed. A final dry, rasping cough clawed its way out.

The canister clicked into place. The brief moment before it hissed out in release seemed to stretch into eternity. The chemicals tasted as foul as ever. Even so, I greedily drank them in and revelled in the way it soothed my lungs and erased my pain.

I still coughed with the first few breaths I took. I had pushed myself too far. Doing so had been a stupid, foolish idea. Even so, I had learnt about how long I could fight through an attack in this environment. I crush the empty canister, trying to draw out the last dregs of gas before shoving it in the bottom of my pack. I have four canisters left. Forty minutes of clear breathing, or four doses to stop an attack.

They didn’t usually happen this regularly. Not unless I was skirmishing for too long. Something was wrong. I rubbed at the dull ache between my eyes through my mask, glaring up at the cold sun. After a moment, I huffed and turned to tidy my overturned pack. Whatever was wrong would not be solved by standing about and moping about it.

The spilled contents of my pack are all small things. The last protein bars, the old man’s compass, the map, the radio, and scrap for my gun — scrap that once had been part of Rat’s grenade launcher. As I put it away, I read over the tag again. 

The nagging doubt was back. It made sense, and if it were true it would mean that the kid he so obviously cared for survived despite my failure. If it weren’t true, that would mean that Rat either had done some grave robbing or knew someone who had. Either way, what I should do as soon as we regained contact was clear: ask him what he knew. I would decide my later actions on what his response would be. But first things first. I built a small fire, burying the snow-filled canteen in the embers. The fire was but a brief blaze, but successful in its purpose. The metal was warming through my gloves, the liquid itself akin to freshly brewed tea. 

In short, a small luxury that I used to distract myself from how cold the rest of me was as I continued on my way.

I passed the time by singing songs in my head. Classics, like that “D O Double G” song my grandfather used to sing along to or that “Whenever, Wherever” song my grandmother told me she’d danced to in secondary. It reminded me of holidays spent across the Ditch, of a time when things were simpler. 

Rat had questioned why we didn’t sail towards New Zealand when we’d slipped out of Darwin and past the Tiwi Islands. Said he’d heard some story or other and was curious about it. I’d told him it didn’t matter. Told him to focus on getting to Asia, to the bigger opportunities it held. He’d forgotten the question by the time Timor-Leste came into view. Which was good. The Rutledges had enough to worry about without having to deal with the two of us, and I’d not have to worry about how they would take it, knowing that the dangerous terrorist “Roadhog” was their own flesh and blood. I hoped they’d never find out. It is better to have them think me dead, in any case. The innocent boy they knew was long gone. He died in the same bright flash of light that ruined my lungs, that brought an end to my world, that changed so many lives.

I do not regret it.

It is better to have fought than let the pollies bugger us sideways. Again. Make us give up what is ours. Again. Push us aside in favour of population that had fuck all right being there. _Again._

The fact that this time it was a group with no history, sprung from the minds of inventors a mere handful of years before I was born... Did they not see the insult they’d dealt? That these constructs, who’d killed thousands, were to be given our land simply because suits and pollies and all those tall poppy _piranpa_ bastards who don’t know Oz took one look the expanse that was our home and said “No human could ever survive there. Why not give it to the bots?”

But we had survived there. We do survive there. And we will continue to survive there.

It is home.

Even if I’ve no longer got the right to call it so. 

I deserved their decision. The last time I had felt truly able to call Oz home had been that bittersweet last night in the pub with all that was left of the unit. The night we learnt what the cost of peace was. The night Overwatch was praised for their ill-deserved title as the sole heroes of humanity, even as they supported that damned treaty. 

Eventually such thoughts turned to idle curiosity about how Overwatch and Talon fit in to the new world order, questions of why Rat and I were never allowed to sit in on board meetings (or, rather, why I was never allowed, as Rat had little interest in such things). Why Talon had no trouble hiring new AJs, why there were never any investigations into their fatality rates; what their goal was.

Sombra knew what was going on. I could see it in her sly grins, hear it in her silences. As I crested a hill, I resolved myself to ask her. I’d need some sort of incentive for the technology-addled chit, of course. Perhaps the truth of what happened at the Omnium would tempt her. A truth for a truth.

A sharp glint of light pierced my eyes without warning, interrupting my musings. Grunting, I shielded my face and stared out from behind my wrist. The fuck had that been?

Something metallic. That was all I knew. The light had been too sharp, too sudden, to be the sun glaring on the snow. I drew my hook and continued forward with steps as quiet and cautious as I could manage. The snow covered slopes before me grew out of focus as I strained my ears, trying in vain to hear anything other than my own breath, footsteps, and the constant, driving wind.

As I crested the next hill I saw something that almost made me sag with relief — a line of black snowmobiles. The way they glinted in the afternoon sun was blinding. Perhaps that previous glimpse of blinding metal had been a glimpse of one of them?

The familiar sensation of being watched, of being sized up as a target washed over me as I neared the row of snowmobiles. How long had it been since the waypoint had been abandoned? How long until the locals came by to check, to scavenge? It had been only a half-day since Junkrat and the girl were here. A blackish-brown stain in the snow, several more beneath three of the snowmobiles, and a distinctive mill of footprints showed that they had indeed been here. 

What on earth they were doing spilling oil everywhere was beyond me. At least the half-frozen pile of corpses that lay in a shoddy, snowy grave mound next to the door made sense. This slaughter was at the hands of the “crazy Russian lady,” as Rat called whoever had done this. He had mentioned something about a note he’d left for me, on... some door. Inside, I hoped. If that dag had left it on the front door like it were some sort of bulletin board... There was no way I was going to search through the snow for a scrap of paper. No matter how important it was.

Fortunately, the front door did not appear to have been used as anything other than kickboxing practice. Pushing it open, I was met with a darkness through which I saw hints of bullet holes and blood stains. 

Ah. More evidence of this so-called Russian madwoman.

Adjusting my hold on my hook, I stepped off the landing and looked around. Any other evidence of her passing had been erased by the wind and light snowfall in addition to the apparent traipsing around of Rat and the girl. At least there wasn’t any sign of anyone _else_ having arrived since they left. Good. It meant I wasn’t in any immediate danger of some scavenger or squatter. With a final look around the snowy, narrow valley, I put away my hook.

Kneeling down, I rifled through the pockets of the assorted dead. Perhaps one of them had a torch. The large bullet holes meant a powerful gun. Which was in line with what Rat said. I chuckled as I examined the stump on one corpse’s arm, wondering what exactly this Russian had done to have that galah call her crazy. The boy had seen far worse than this, from what I’d heard around town. Hell, he’s _done_ worse than this and laughed about it. 

There was something funny about seeing a suit snivel on the ground like they deserve to, to watch them slowly go into shock as blood spurts from blasted off limbs, but I preferred being able to feel their final shudders as they hung from my hook — feeling them writhe like the pathetic worms they were. Bastards deserve everything we give them for what they’ve done. 

Just as the world they’ve created deserves the self-sown chaos we brought.

Dropping the arm, I flipped the corpse over to check its front pockets. One pocket contained a wallet. Curious, I flipped it open to reveal a picture of a smiling couple and young child. My eyes flicked up to the dead woman’s frost-bitten, tear-streaked face.

“Hope your last conversation with them wasn’t unpleasant,” I muttered as I rifled through the wallet. “Or maybe that’s why you’re here - you ran away. Heh. Imagine how horrible they’ll feel because of you. Your last conversation being fight, then you disappear off to fuck knows. Next they hear, you’re dead.” A derisive snort rumbled through my mask even as the smiling faces in the portrait filled my thoughts. “Ah well. Should’ve known what you were signing up for. At least they’ve got someone to remember you by.”

Finding nothing of worth in the wallet, I tossed it aside and resumed my search for a torch. Patting the corpse down, I found a keychain torch on the belt. With a final nod to the pile of ex-Talon operatives, I returned to the door.

The torch flicked on in my hand to reveal a hallway that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a horror film. Blood splattered and bullet ridden walls, a floor marked by pools of blood and the greasy stains where bodies had lain, discarded weapons and shell casings dotting the ground, light fixtures off-kilter... It looked like the Scrapyard after a Tournament. I cast the valley one last look over my shoulder as I entered. All the damn signs were in Chinese and... some squiggly script with a line through it. Of course that drongo would forget to tell me where the door he’d left the note was. Idiot. Forgetting not everyone reads Chinese.

Oh, wait. There’s the note.

It was a short letter. Mostly recounting what they had found here and the basic layout of the building. To his credit, turns out he _had_ remembered that I don’t know Chinese and had drawn me a small map. Labelled it, even.

By the way he’d talked and written about it, the generator was a rusty old piece of shit that deserved to be scrapped. I couldn’t have agreed more upon actually seeing it. Thing must have been as old as I was, and showed it even beyond the improvised repairs that Rat had done. In addition to the fluorescent lights in the hall and the radios in the comm room, it both looked and felt as if Talon had purposefully gone for a 2020s, 2030s look to the place. The generator churned loudly enough when I turned it on to support that theory. It was even petrol powered. Who the hell used petrol anymore outside of Oz?

The lights flickered back on to show an even more grisly scene than before. Apparently there were not only shell casings everywhere on the floor, but also bits of fingers and a hand. Probably from that dead sheila outside. I toed them aside as I passed to the kitchen. She was dead — there was nothing I could do about it and I had no reason to care.

Throwing the note down on the counter, I turned on all the burners and huddled against the stove. Finally. Warmth. Sure, with the generator working again the heating systems were starting to turn back on. Didn’t change the fact that I was still cold.

My fingertips burned as feeling returned to them. Peeling off my gloves, I examined the blue tips and the even blacker than usual nails. After a moment I shook my head and turned to searching through the cabinets. If my nails fell off from poor health and frostbite, well... It would have been something that was a long time coming. At least with that ginger quack and her checkups I was down to just the issues related to my scarred lungs. No more need to clap to piss less painfully, no more itchy, suspicious moles. She’d even said that, if not for my mask and muscles, I’d be just like any other man nearing fifty now. Sure. I was just like any other 48-year-old man. The idea had been insulting at the time, but remembering it now made me smile.

The smile fell off as I heard the door to the outside slam.

Brandishing my hook and gun, I charged into the hall to find nothing out of place. The door was closed, just as I had left it. The hall was empty.

Suspicious.

I snuck down the hall as quietly as possible, peering into the rooms as I went. Nothing in the boiler room was out of place. Beyond a bit of electronic scrap from Rat blasting the door open, nothing was wrong in the comm room. The bathroom held naught beyond piles of scrap, broken porcelain, and glass. Bunk room was clear. I kicked open the storage room to find an organised mess, but it was otherwise clear.

The front door banged again, and a howling noise filled the building briefly before it slammed shut once more.

Ah. The wind. Of course. Groaning with self-frustration, I closed the door and made sure to latch it. Testing it, it turned out that I simply hadn’t latched it well enough the last time I’d closed it. One of the hall lights flickered as I fiddled with the door. I remembered what Rat had mentioned - the generator wouldn’t last very long without serious repairs.

Some waypoint this was turning out to be. It was almost as if it were set up to fail by modern standards. I grimaced behind my mask as I returned to the kitchen. Talon would have a lot to explain when I next got in contact with them.

I holstered my hook but left my gun on the counter as I rifled through the collection of preserved food. Fortunately there was a good selection of vegetarian MREs and canned foods to choose from. Perhaps it was due to the location, perhaps it was a nod to my dietary needs, perhaps it was even because Talon had a contractual obligation under some new international law or some bollocks like that. I didn’t care. All I cared about was how I wouldn’t starve. Even the limited variety didn’t bother me.

The curried stew was warm and filling. After the frigid hikes I’d had, it was easily classifiable as one of the best things I’d ever eaten. It even seemed to help with my pounding headache. As I ate, I looked about. Perhaps I could make some coffee or tea, to help with how tired I was after my hike. Then my eyes fell on the note, which had landed facedown. There was writing on the back. Out of curiosity I leant over to read it.

Though I had expected it to mention the girl, what I found instead left me grabbing my gun and heading to the comm room. Rat had blasted the door open and destroyed the more modern communications array. As was usual for that short-sighted galah, he had taken the route that was simultaneously most direct and least thought through. And left me to deal with his mess.

Or, in this case, an outdated and comparatively short ranged HAM radio. I could only hope that we were within range of the Kathmandu base. Flicking the radio on, I donned the headphones and began calling out. Waypoint Mu to Base K-216, come in Base K-216.

The sound crackled in my ears as a tinny voice came through. _“This is Base K-216. We copy you Waypoint Mu. Do you copy? Over.”_

“Copy.” The voice started talking again, but I held down the call button and said, “Emergency. All agents at Waypoint Mu killed in action by unknown party. Operation Z-04 is FUBAR. Agents Cordoba, Ducharme, Labunka, Messere, Tennyson, and Wilson killed in action. Agent Junkrat missing in action, last known contact today at approximately ten hundred hours, heading north to an unspecified temple with an Overwatch operative. Over.”

A few moments of silence, then _“Noted. And Agent Roadhog?”_

“Present and accounted for,” I replied. “Generator at Waypoint Mu damaged by intruder, regular communication channels disrupted.” I looked down to the crumpled paper in my hand. “Emergency message to Agent Sombra from Agent Junkrat — a Russian woman is looking for her. Proxy servers being traced. Over.”

_“Message received. We ask that you leave the Waypoint as inspection ready as possible upon departure, over.”_

What. “Impossible. Structural damage to the bathroom, the comm room, and the entryway.”

_“Then leave it as you found it upon departure.”_

I growled, rubbing my temple as my headache pounded. “Why?”

 _“Classified,”_ came the reply, even tinnier than before. Well of bloody course it was classified. Static crackled through the headphones, then _“Please note that conditions in your area are likely to deteriorate. Over.”_

“What kind —”

A weak blue light suddenly swept over me, casting a shadow on the wall before me and making me pause. It was gone when I turned my head.

 _“Agent Roadhog, do you copy,”_ the voice was repeating in my ear.

“I copy. Something’s here.”

I tore off the headphones before receiving a response, hoping that whatever was spying on me hadn’t heard too much. With my gun primed to fire, I began my search of the waypoint. Again. This time, however, I shut the doors behind me after thoroughly clearing each room. As an extra measure, I leant a gun casing against them. A sort of “tape over the door” trick, and one I hoped would work.

Whatever was here with me was silent when it moved and gave off a blue light. Beyond that, I knew nothing. Even so, I racked my mind for what it could be with uncertainty. Technology had changed too much since the Incident for me to be sure about any of my guesses.

In the dorm room I heard a small beep when I entered. Which confirmed nothing but that I was dealing with something electronic. With my gun at the ready, I closed the door quietly. If the whoever was controlling the thing were intelligent (or if it itself were an AI) they would turn off the thing’s blue light as soon as the room went dark. It would take only a moment, but a moment was all I would need. Reaching over, I flicked the light switch off.

There — the corner. Underneath a bunk, from the way the shadows played before everything went dark. I turned the lights back on and rushed over.

A tiny blue robot flew from beneath the bed when I approached, chirping as blue exclamation marks flew across its screen. I made a lunge for it and missed. It released a horrid screech as it flew away. Another screech sounded as it found the door closed. Upon rounding the row of bunks, I found it swivelling on the spot as if searching for an escape.

Another confirmation — it was an AI. I drew my hook and pointed my gun at it. A small, unwanted cough escaped my throat and alerted the tiny bot to my presence.

The thing’s eyes shot to exclamation marks again just before it tried to fly down a different row. I threw my hook, which missed and flew instead into the door, piercing the metal and vibrating with force. However I must have nicked the thing, for it careened into a bed post and ricocheted off with a resounding clang.

My gun echoed a moment later. The AI thudded against the wall, its small chassis pierced with various bits of scrap metal, before hovering slowly to the floor with a long, soft beep.

I picked it up to take a closer look. It was cute, I though as I ripped my hook out of the door with a loud metallic screech. Very cute, to the point where I almost felt a twinge of guilt when it beeped in artificial pain. Its screen was flashing between full stops, big circles, and exclamation marks as I reentered the hallway.

Then voice emanated from the thing, asking, “Was such a violent act necessary? We do not intend you any harm.”

I started, staring down at the spy bot. The voice, coming through the filters of the bot, was as tinny as the voice on the HAM radio had been. I tilted my head to the side and nodded cautiously.

The rushing footsteps in the snow outside and thumps of someone leaping up the stairs were my only warning before the door was kicked open. I brandished my hook and spun towards the new arrival. It was the blue-clad Overwatch agent from the plane, her face red with exertion. She fixed me with a glare and trained that odd ice ray of hers in my direction.

“Freeze,” she commanded between pants. “Don’t move!”

“Well I do not intend anyone any harm,” said the voice from the tiny bot, sounding disappointed. “Mei-Ling, please do not shoot Agent Roadhog. From what we overheard, he has a way to contact our missing friend.”

The AI in my hand beeped sadly, its eyes shooting towards the woman. She bit her lip, eyes wavering between me and the bot. I tensed, ready to throw my hook at her, when a moving glint of metal over her shoulder distracted me.

It was that damned tin head we were supposed to have scrapped. 

I scowled at the bot, glad that my mask made the agent unaware of the change in my focus. 

I needed a plan. Any plan. Hm. If I threw the tiny robot in my hand at the woman, she would move to catch it. This would open up a line of sight to hook that artificial preacher. I’d then be able pull him forward and rip out those exposed hard drive wires of his. If I then rushed the Overwatch agent, I could get a hand around her throat and slam her head in the door until it turned to a bloody pulp. If I didn’t succeed in that, she’d shoot me with her gun. 

And then I’d grab her by the throat and slam her head in the door, assuming she’d not hit anything vital.

I could still save the mission at least. I could do more than that. I could save the mission, _and_ get rid of an Overwatch agent. Which would mean better pay for a job well done.

“I would ask that you do not attempt to kill us,” said the tin head, “for I have a deal in mind that may be of interest to you. If I understood your call to the fullest extent possible, you are unaware of the exact location and trajectory of your friend Junkrat. Mei-Ling, Snowball—” It gestured to the thing in my hand “— and myself would like to find our friend, who is, as everyone is aware, currently with Junkrat. I think we can work together.”

I breathed in to answer and cursed the flutter in my chest. Another attack was coming. Swallowing my spit as if it would help, I ground out, “So? Mission says scrap you.”

“I told you that he wouldn’t listen, Zenyatta,” the woman said, voice dripping with ice. Pursing her lips, she continued in an authoritative tone, “Give me Snowball, or so help me I will shoot you where you stand.”

If she were from Oz she’d have shot me upon kicking the door down. The tiny thing released a high pitched hum as I tightened my hand around it. “You’d’ve already done so if you meant to.”

She looked confused, angry, and, for a brief moment, horrified. Her jaw twitched as she responded. “And if you meant to kill Snowball, you’d’ve already done so.”

I tilted my head at her. “Bold claim,” I said, squeezing Snowball harder. “Wanna test it?”

The woman’s face drained of colour at the pitiful screech the drone released. “Stop,” she said, moving to step forward if not for the bot’s hand on her shoulder. “Don’t hurt Snowball, please.”

She sounded like a mother pleading for her child. I remember such pleas during the war. The bots hadn’t listened. My eyes flicked to the bot at her side. They could be replaced, just as any object could. The dead, on the other hand, were simply gone. _Tjaka._ She could replace the AI. I snorted in amusement, and pursed my lips as the tickle travelled to my lungs. A cough was clawing its way up my throat again. Not now. Not when my pack was behind a closed door. I breathed in deeply and held it, trying to get as much oxygen as possible before the fight began.

“I would ask that you do not hurt Mei-Ling or damage Snowball further.” The tin head spoke up as its necklace lit up. “I know that your mission is to kill me. I can respect that, though I of course do not wish to die. It is my hope, in fact, that no one else die here. This place has seen too much death of late. There is no cause for further violence.”

The air rushed from my lungs as the bastard child of a laugh and a cough. “A bot preaching non-violence. Now I’ve seen everything.”

“Life is a precious thing, as I’m sure we all agree,” it said. “And violence for violence’s sake only increases suffering. Surely you have seen enough of that.”

“It is deserved,” I replied.

“It is only deserved if nothing is done to break the cycle. Hate begets hate, violence begets violence. You will reap what you yourself sow.”

“Right,” I said, unable to hold off a hoarse laugh. “This the new post-war programming? Trying to keep the stupid bastards convinced your lot’s the worst off?”

Both targets before me tilted their heads a fraction when a ragged cough fell from my lips. The woman adjusted her stance, her strange gun still trained on me. The tin head simply removed his hand from her shoulder and folded his hands in his lap.

After a moment, the woman made a rookie’s mistake. She turned her eyes from me. “Zenyatta,” she began, “I don’t think your teachings —”

Snowball beeped as I threw it at the woman. She dropped her gun and moved to catch the thing. Just as I had anticipated.

The tin head, on the other hand, surprised me and shot out a purple orb. I raised my hand to block it, only to feel nothing. Nothing but an increased need to cough, a sudden wave of dizziness, and a sharp additional pang to my headache. Whatever the orb had done, it had made everything I had been feeling even worse.

I’d have to hurry this up. Get back to normal.

With a yell, I began to throw my hook at the robot. Its necklace glowed with a bright blue light, and suddenly I was pelted with a volley of orbs. Each seemed to be a ball of pure electricity as they hit me, sinking in through my clothing and shocking me. I’d felt worse, though — this only tickled in comparison to the girl’s taser. The volley cut off when I hooked the bot’s lower torso. The necklace began glowing gold. 

Let this machine try its tricks. Nothing could save it now.

I jerked the chain, and the robot fell to the floor with a crash. At that moment, I felt a blast of cold across my belly. The woman, cradling the tiny bot in one arm and glaring at me, was shooting a stream of ice at me. It was so cold it felt like fire was licking at my flesh. My muscles seized against the blast as I fought to keep pulling the robot forward. If I could just get those wires...

A cough erupted, then another. The tickling sensation was back, its strength tenfold. Then, suddenly, the feeling of drowning on land as my worthless lungs shook in my chest. The cold on my stomach was worsening the attack. I sank to my knees, blackness tinging my vision as a purple orb flew down to my belly. As it hovered there, the burning cold increased until I was clenching my jaw in pain.

My mask got too close to the ice stream as I bowed over. Between the cold air from the woman’s gun and my coughing the eyes were becoming fogged up, leaving me all but blind as I gasped for air. The robot was within reach. I knew this. I could still finish this, rid the world of another machine that could never be trusted. But I no longer could see the exposed wires. I reached out blindly, ready to tear my hook out and bludgeon the thing into spare parts.

The barrel of a gun pressed against my head, just above my ear. “Don’t move.”

A brief pause was all my lungs needed to betray me. I wheezed.

The woman pressed the gun deeper and repeated herself.

Below me the robot said something, inaudible over my gasps. It pressed its hand into my chest, the necklace glowing bright gold.

Then, darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> To reiterate, I am not from where any of the Overwatch characters hail from. _If there are errors with accents/dialects/slang, **please tell me.**_ You can find me at themusicalhermit.tumblr.com (subject to change as soon as I find a new site).


End file.
